


Recalled

by Kahvi, Roadstergal



Category: Red Dwarf
Genre: Angst, Angst and Humor, Humor, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2013-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-07 21:24:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 33,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/753225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kahvi/pseuds/Kahvi, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roadstergal/pseuds/Roadstergal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three million years in the past, Lister is mourning the end of his relationship with Kochanski, and is about to take drastic measures to relieve the pain... But the thing about erasing your memory is, you never remember that you've done it. Or more importantly, how many <i>times</i> you've done it.<br/> </p><p>  <i>And now, there was this, offering him an out. And no, he wasn't proud of it, but under the circumstances... With a deep sigh, he pushed the device down on top of his head (it made a rather bad fit), and flipped the toggles on either side. A quiet hum enveloped him, accompanied by a soft flash, and that was that. He'd go to bed, wake up, and remember nothing.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

David Lister wasn't proud of what he was about to do. Still, given that he'd already lost his girl, his heart, his soul, and the will to eat, drink or just generally live, what use was it to hold on to a frazzled bit of residual pride? Of course, he pondered darkly, if this thing worked the way it was supposed to, that might not be all that much of an issue. Nothing would be, because it wouldn't have, for all intents and purposes, happened.

He poked the grungy-looking plastic helmet with a fingernail, frowning. Where had Petersen gotten this thing from, anyway? He kept buying all sorts of ridiculous crap from shops that were clearly just out to skin as many spacers as they could in as little time as possible, and none of them ever worked. Well, at least not how they should work. The robot dog kept catching fire when it tried to do flip-flops, which made a great lighter, and a nice trick to impress the girls. He sighed. Girls. Yeah.

Kochanski had been the only thing that kept him going. At least when he wasn't seeing her, like _actually_ seeing her, going out and that, he could dream about her, and what it would be like if she broke up with Tim or Tom or whatever and came after him. Now that he'd had her, what were the chances of ever getting her back again? Yeah, he was an optimist, but not an idiot. And now Petersen had stopped drinking, too, and where did that leave him? Stuck in a smegging rut, that was where.

And now, there was this, offering him an out. And no, he wasn't proud of it, but under the circumstances... With a deep sigh, he pushed the device down on top of his head (it made a rather bad fit), and flipped the toggles on either side. A quiet hum enveloped him, accompanied by a soft flash, and that was that. He'd go to bed, wake up, and remember nothing.

Ah well, too late for regrets now, anyway.

 

David Lister wasn't proud of what he was about to do. Still, considering that he'd just lost the best friend he had on this stupid crate, and any possibility of anything but a screwed up relationship with a couple of others, not least of which his was the man he was supposed to share a room with for the rest of this sorry trip, what use was it to hold on to a frazzled bit of residual pride? Of course, he pondered darkly, if this thing worked the way it was supposed to, that might not be all that much of an issue. Nothing would be, because it wouldn't have, for all intents and purposes, happened.

He poked the grungy-looking plastic helmet with a fingernail, frowning, as Selby sidled up to him, nervously. "Where the smeg did Petersen get this thing from anyway?"

"Dunno," Lister mumbled, turning the thing over in his hands. Petersen kept buying all sorts of ridiculous crap from shops that were clearly just out to skin as many spacers as they could in as little time as possible, and none of them ever worked. Well, at least not how they should work. Even that funny lighter that looked like a robot dog had stopped flip-flopping in the end. Shame, that; he'd been meaning to show it to Kochanski, maybe have her come over, get some drinks out... Ah well, first things first.

"Look," Selby shifted his weight from one foot to the other, looking alternately over Lister's right and left shoulder, peering at the thing in his hands, "do we _have_ to do this?"

"I dunno," Lister snarked, "do I have to go tell yer shift-leader ya don't have a sick granny needs looking after through AR unexpectedly after every smegging planet leave you take?"

"Hey, man, no fair." Selby sounded hurt. He started crossing and un-crossing his hands across his chest, and looking around nervously.

Lister sighed, and put the helmet down. "So what _is_ fair then? I thought we'd agreed; _you_ wipe yer memory of our entire conversation about..." he hesitated, "Petersen and... and Rimmer and all that along with me, and _I_ keep covering for ya. Deal or no deal?"

Selby stared at the strange plastic device, looking doubtful. "Does it hurt?"

"How the smeg am I supposed to know? Look, are ye in or out?"

After a moments thought, Selby gritted his teeth, and nodded, then gave a sudden, nervous grin. "Hey, I bet... I bet if you did this, you wouldn't even remember doing it, yeah?"

Lister sighed again. He really didn't have time for this. "Of course you wouldn't. Be pretty pointless if ya did, no?"

"Yeah," Selby enthused on, "but you could, like, keep doing it over and over again, and not knowing that you had, right? And then, then you'd be all 'aaah, where's me memory gone, I can't find it', and then you'd be all confused, and you'd get seepage, right, from your lost memory, and..."

"Selby?"

"Yeah?"

"Shut the smeg up."

No, Lister wasn't proud of it, but under the circumstances... With a deep sigh, he pushed the device down on top of his head (it made a rather bad fit), and flipped the toggles on either side. A quiet hum enveloped him, accompanied by a soft flash, and that was that. He'd go to bed, wake up, and remember nothing.

Ah well, too late for regrets now, anyway.

Three million years later, it was far too late for regrets.

 

Change. Rimmer had always had a bit of a tenuous relationship with it. Some things that he wished would change just never would, like him being a world-class smegup. Some things that he did not wish to change - such as, oh, _him being alive_ , did change. But the most recent changes were some of the most unequivocally positive ones that had ever occurred to him. Yes, change was a good thing, these days! New quarters, for one. Spacious, high-tech, and above all, _clean_ quarters! Rimmer wondered why Lister had ever agreed to them. Perhaps it signaled a change in the man. Rimmer glanced over at where Lister slouched in a chair, a beer in one hand and what Rimmer was sure was a tasteless and useless magazine in the other. Well, maybe not.

Rimmer turned back to the mirror. He was eager to explore another change - Holly had given him a light bee! A self-contained projection device. The sex change had apparently taken enough runtime to make projecting Rimmer a significant strain. She had floated the idea of turning him off, and he had punctured said idea with a pin and let it sink. The light bee was the compromise they reached, and Rimmer smegging loved it. He had control over his own body, finally! And he was going to use it.

Lister sat, his body language giving every indication of wanting to be left alone. This was, unsurprisingly, because he really, really wanted just that. Just fifteen minutes, half an hour or so, of relative privacy. Was that too much to ask for? He could, of course, go to any of the several thousand other rooms in the mile-long ship to achieve this goal; hell, he could even move in there, if he wanted to. The opportunity had, in fact, presented itself quite recently, when they both realized at about the same time that there was no need for either of them to keep living in the squalid conditions which had been forced upon them when the ship was still alive and fully crewed. That they should move was obvious, but why did neither of them question that they should move together? Yes, there had been times when he - or more often, Rimmer - would simply get _enough_ , and head off somewhere on "holiday," roaming the huge, empty hulk of a mining-ship on the pretense that they were enjoying themselves (if they were Rimmer), or just honestly and openly sulking (if they were Lister.) But they always - and this was the odd thing - they always came _back_. Lister sometimes found himself wondering why this was, but never dwelled on it for very long. It just didn't seem particularly important, in that dull, sort of background way a lot of things didn't seem important these days. And so, for the moment, he contented himself with trying very hard to pretended that Rimmer was not there.

Holly took quick control of Rimmer's projection. "'Ere, how about this?" she asked, as a beige dress uniform appeared on Rimmer's body.

Rimmer shook his head. "Beige? I look like I'm ill!" As neat and crisp as the JMC uniforms were, they did make him look gangrenous by their dull... beige-ness.

Lister pretended not to hear, turning a page demonstratively loudly; in itself rather a feat. He sighed. Sometimes he had the depressing feeling he was the most mature person on this ship. This was always immediately followed by the even more depressing feeling that this was decidedly not a good sign.

Rimmer made the beige uniform disappear, leaving him in his white underwear. Space Corps Astronavigationist, uniform revision three? The orange uniform popped into being; tight vinyl trousers, double-breasted jacket to match. Rimmer thought it looked rather smart.

Holly shook her head. "Orange isn't your color, Arn."

Lister rolled his eyes, trying to hide behind the magazine. He wasn't really reading it anymore; there were too many distractions. At least the half-naked women adorning every other page still managed to hold his attention. Some things were easier than reading. Hell, a lot of things were.

Rimmer scowled at the uniform. It did look good, didn't it? Or did it? Smeg it all, Holly could make him doubt his own taste, with her ongoing negativity. Rimmer made the orange uniform disappear. "Look," he said, irately, "did you give me this light bee because your run-time was too strained, or was that some _other_ senile computer?"

"Just tryin' to help," Holly replied, placidly.

"Well, stop!" Rimmer barked at her head, before turning back to the mirror. Fine. Astronavigationist was out. Medical staff? No, powder blue would not do. Not manly enough. Guards? No, people might expect him to actually guard something.

Beer, Lister thought, trying to drown out the bickering voices with pleasant mental imagery. Beer was always there for him. He took a deep pull on the can in his hand, anticipating the soothing numbness that would inevitably follow as the tasty amber liquid flowed down his throat. Yes, beer never let him down, he thought, tilting the can even further.

It was empty.

With the deepest of deep sighs, Lister tossed the can over his shoulder towards the rubbish bin. He missed. Ah, but why care? Another in a long line of failed endeavors, as Rimmer no doubt would say. The corners of his mouth twitched a little at this. Ah yes. He could always amuse himself if he tried hard enough. Even after years of mind-numbing boredom, one thing never failed to bring a smile to his face; annoying Rimmer.

The clatter of the can on the floor resounded through the room. Rimmer looked at beer can pointedly.

Lister put his magazine back up in front of his face.

"Are you going to pick that up?" Rimmer asked, even more pointedly, tapping his incorporeal foot soundlessly against the floor.

"Are you going to stop pretending like yer on JMC's Greatest Makeovers?" Lister turned another page he hadn't read, wishing he had never stopped with the ignoring. He was, he discovered, not in the mood for a verbal boxing match.

"Lister, surely you don't expect _me_ to pick that up..." Rimmer ground on, relentlessly.

"What. Ever." Lister shuffled the position of his boots on the table; left over right was more comfy, he decided. If nothing else, at least his feet could feel good.

"You're a disgrace to the company," Rimmer snorted, disgusted. No sense of class. No sense of neatness. No sense of - yes - style. Rimmer turned back to the mirror, generating another uniform. Black vinyl, form-fitting, silver buttons in a row down the front. Yes! _Very_ dashing. Rimmer pulled himself straight, throwing his shoulders back and flaring his nostrils slightly. "Hm, not bad."

Lured by Rimmer's murmured noises of approval, Lister looked up, still holding on to his magazine. "What is _that_?"

"It's a Space Corps uniform. I'm not surprised that you don't know." Rimmer sniffed a condescending sniff. "Perhaps a bit too Special Forces..."

Lister shook his head. "Rimmer, why do ya want a different uniform? It's not gonna change who you are."

"The clothes make the man, Listy!" Rimmer declared with conviction. He looked at Lister - at his red Zero-Gee football shirt, his boxers, his leather deerstalker. "And yours make you a bare-legged space bum." Considering his point devastatingly made, Rimmer turned back to the mirror. No, the black made him look too pasty. Red? Yes, the Space Corps bomber pilot uniform was red. It appeared on him; red syntho-leather, flared at the thighs, tight at the calves, with a businesslike flight jacket in the same material.

Looking downwards and across towards the table, Lister examined his legs critically. Long enough to reach the ground with him atop, light brown fading to a pale, almost beige tan for lack of sun, strong ankles; thighs a little flabby according to at least one vindictive girlfriend, but all in all, perfect for their use. "Nothing wrong with me legs." He looked up in time to catch the latest uniform, and sniggered.

"Lister, you don't just slouch about showing them off to everyone!" Rimmer said, feeling slightly exasperated. Lister did that to you. "What's so funny?" Rimmer snapped, as Lister gave the snorting giggle that Rimmer had grown to dearly loathe.

"At least I don't try to cover 'em up in that!" Lister chortled.

Rimmer rolled his eyes. "Lister, you might have found that your rise up the ranks would not have been hindered as it was if you had sheathed your shanks in something a _little_ more appropriate."

Lister snorted. "Like what?"

"Quite frankly, _anything_." Rimmer sniffed, then turned back to the mirror. No, that red just did not set off his hair color, did it? The bomber uniform disappeared with an effort of will. Fine, none of the uniforms were quite right. Still, Rimmer could make variations, couldn't he? He generated a set of trousers that were of the same material and fit as those in the Astronavigationist's uniform, but green. Hmm, not bad. Not bad at all, no sir! Rimmer looked at his reflection approvingly.

Dropping the pretense of reading, and with it, the magazine, Lister sat up somewhat attentively. "So, wait; are you trying to say that's what superior officers are looking for? Proper leg-coverings?"

"Among other things, yes." Rimmer turned, looking at the reflection of his bum in the mirror. Girls had always criticized it as being too skinny, but there was little he could do about that. For the moment. Hell, maybe he _could_ change his body, with this new light bee! Once he got used to it, of course. He was quite pleased that he had made the trousers properly, for the moment. "Yes, I think that will do..." he muttered quietly.

"Like, shorts, yer out, pressed trousers, yer in?" Lister eyed the green trousers reflectively. Didn't leave much to the imagination, did they? He wondered if Rimmer realized. Didn't seem like it, the way he was posing.

"The former, most definitely, miladdio! Do you think Napoleon would have made it as far as he did in boxers?"

"What, they had them back in them days?"

Rimmer spoke as if Lister had not. Well, he had not said anything relevant, had he? "Can you imagine Alexander the Great in a curry-stained T-shirt, marching up to the African tribes and saying, 'Oi, give over!'?"

"Probably went without, from what I heard."

Rimmer shook his head. "They dressed like proper military men, Lister!" Oh, what the smeg was the use? The man - and Rimmer used the term loosely - was completely irreverent, nothing but a classless space-bum. Rimmer generated a green undershirt, and started to tuck it in neatly.

"Wha, like Captain Emerald?" The so-called uniform _did_ look like something out of an animated children's Tri-D special, only not as stylish.

Rimmer sniffed. "Your disapproval is one of the criteria I am looking for in an outfit. You can see if the canary lives or if the putrefying bacterium dies. It's all one."

Allowing himself a quick smile at this, Lister gave the ensemble a closer look. So the trousers were a little tight. So what. Who around here was going to ogle Rimmer's bum? "It's not that bad," he admitted, finally.

Rimmer sighed. "Don't say that. I was starting to like it."

Lister rolled his eyes as Rimmer generated a jacket that was - well, truth be told, it was more like the jacket from Jett Flasher, Space Ranger, than any genuine Space Corps uniform, but how was Lister to know? It fastened at the shoulder and fell to the upper thigh, and Rimmer thought it looked smegging professional. He congratulated himself as Holly's head popped on yet again. "Green ain't your color, Arn."

"Smashed viewscreen isn't your color! Smeg off!" Rimmer barked. Smegging hell, would that fecking computer ever leave him alone?

Holly muttered something about holo-PMT as Lister looked away and giggled. "You look like a garden arrangement," she said more loudly, just before she popped off.

And for a moment, there was calm; the quiet, peaceful silence Lister had been craving so desperately just minutes before. Now, however, he found he couldn't stop watching this ridiculous fashion show, with Rimmer now saluting himself in increasingly complicated and pointless ways. He was clearly pleased with the results. How come Rimmer managed to do this on his own now, anyway? He'd said something to Holly, but Lister's mind had been trying to filter those two out at that point. Curiosity was slowly getting the better of him. Oh well, what was the harm in just _asking_? He leaned slightly to his side to get a better view. The jacket shifted in red and green rather prettily. No, not bad at all, he mused. But yes, he had a question. "So, how'd you do that, anyway?"

"I've studied Space Corps uniforms extensively," Rimmer said, with pride. "I remember them all, from the first uniforms in the late 21st century to present-day... er, present three-million-years-ago."

"Right, but like, how'd you make 'em... go on and off like that?"

Rimmer eyed Lister's apparently earnest and interested expression with suspicion. "Why do you want to know?" He looked back at the mirror, tousling his hair with annoyance. Smegging frizzy curls that would not smegging stay smegging put!

"Just curious."

"Yes," Rimmer sneered. He frowned at his hair. "My hair is far too long. I might as well be wearing a tie-dye t-shirt and smoking a bong."

His magazine fell to the floor, badly stapled pages flying, as Lister's feet dropped off the table. "Oh, come _on_ , man," he complained, getting as close to Rimmer as he dared without risking the man's goited paranoia to set in, which was about three feet or so, "I'm just taking an interest."

Rimmer frowned, pulling his hair straight to gauge its length. Three inches? "The only time you take an interest in _me_ is when you want to pull a prank, miladdio. Give it up." Rimmer shifted from foot to foot. Truth be told, he did not really have the hang of his holo-clothing. It was fine when he was in front of a mirror, but would his clothes disappear if he became distracted? He shivered and turned his attention back to his hair. Lister crossed his arms over his chest and sighed, watching as Rimmer concentrated, imagining a pair of scissors. His hair was abruptly cut - far, far too short. Smeg! Smegging hell! He looked like a convict!

He must have imagined it, Lister thought later, but as Rimmer's hair got an instant crew-cut treatment, he could have sworn he heard a noise like three thousand sharp blades snapping against one another in unison. Imaginary sound or not, the sudden snap made him jump back, startled.

"Oops." Rimmer sighed in frustration at the image of his stupid, shorn head in the mirror.

"Well, I'm glad I can't touch ya," Lister mumbled, wide-eyes, "I like me fingers!"

Rimmer's lip twisted. "Just stuff it." Hat. He needed a hat. Didn't the duty officers who categorized supplies have hats? One of them appeared on his head. Green, to match the uniform, and it covered his sad stubble just perfectly.

The beginnings of Lister's wide grin turned dumbfounded. "What the _smeg_? Yer not _wearing_ that, are ya?" It looked like a misshapen plastic toy Frisbee. Lister was sure he'd seen one in a park somewhere, downtrodden and bitten by various passer-by dogs.

Rimmer smiled. Oh, yes! Purposeful, militaristic, dashing. "Fits the bill perfectly!"

Perfection? Lister's mouth gaped. He walked around Rimmer in amused disbelief, as though he needed to make sure this wasn't some boredom-induced hallucination. Then, slowly but surely, he started to giggle. "It's got a li'l antenna!" Now that he'd started, he couldn't stop. Spasms shook his body, making him double over and clutch his sides.

Rimmer crossed his arms, sneering at Lister's cruddy kit. "What, do you have a wardrobe critique, mister totty-legs and curry-stain?"

The giggles had long since turned to chuckles, and they, in turn, increased in volume. It was like the Rimmer Comedy Hour! "What kind of reception you get on that, eh?" He managed, leaning one hand against the wall for support.

"A better reception in any gathering of officers than _you_ would." Rimmer pointedly looked down his nose at Lister.

"Rimmer, I have _never_ , ever seen any officer on this ship in anything even remotely like," Lister pointed a shaking finger, "that. What the smeg is it?"

"It's a Space Corps mobile unit uniform from the early 22nd century," Rimmer said, with pride. Not that there ever were any such things as Space Corps mobile units, but how the smeg would Lister know?

"Oh, right?" And Lister was a four-star Admiral.

"No, it's a pizza delivery uniform. Of course that's right!" Rimmer turned back to the mirror, looking at himself from as many angles as he could. Yes, it was perfect. He adjusted the hat slightly.

"I'd believe ya either way, man." Lister's giggles died out as he watched Rimmer preening. Well, good for a laugh, that, if nothing else. It felt like something of an anti-climax once Rimmer stopped playing along, though.

"Don't you have something better to do?" Rimmer asked, acidly. "Like picking up that beer can?"

"Nah, I'm good." And he was, really. He was all right as long as Rimmer was _not_. Life, he thought grimly, was all about the simple pleasures.

"No, you're not." Rimmer walked back to his bunk and flopped on it, wishing to all space that he could feel it at his back. The reminder that he was _dead_ made him petulant. "You are the exact opposite of good. Everything you do turns to pure evil."

"I thought I was like a triple-fried-egg-chili-chutney-sandwich?" Lister parried, walking over to lean against the wall. It felt pleasantly cool and impartial against his back.

"You are a pain in my arse," Rimmer growled.

Lister smiled gently, as thought to an obstinate child. "All right, man. All right." He sidled over to where he magazine lay, blinking uncomprehendingly at the article exposed by the earlier brutal un-stapling. There were words there, ones he understood. But try as he might, he just couldn't bring himself to care what they were.

"Even when you try to be _nice_ , you smeg things up," Rimmer replied, feeling nasty. "Like that _lovely_ death-day present."

"Oh, eh?" What a lovely thing to bring up, Lister thought. And we were having such fun. "We'd agreed not to talk about that, yeah? I said I was sorry, not much more I can do, is there?"

Ah, finally Lister was uncomfortable! Served him smegging well right. The only thing that would annoy him more would be the mention of his oh-so- _precious_ ex-girlfriend. "Well," Rimmer sniffed, "at least it was someone I didn't know. I can't imagine what it would be like to have your memories of dating smegging Kochanski." He could not help saying her name like it was some kind of highly contagious skin disease.

Lister shifted uncomfortably. "What?" _Dating_ Kochanski? What was Rimmer up to now? It seemed like he was building up to a low blow, even for him, but Lister couldn't figure out what it might be.

Rimmer raised one eyebrow. "Ko... chan...skeee. The little tart you used to kick me out of the room to shag."

"Eh?" This didn't make sense. Not that Rimmer usually made much sense, but this made even less sense than usual. And yet, there an odd, creeping undercurrent of... something or other, one that made Lister want to crawl out of his own skin.

Rimmer gave an evil snicker. Oh, if he was going to try to get out of this by denying it... "Ah, I see she was a very memorable part of your life. Unbeatable sex, _that_ must have been. I take back what I said about you being no good! I would like to thank you from the bottom of my heart for not giving me _those_ memories!"

The frown lines on Lister's forehead threatened to fold it in two. "No, hang on... I never..." He'd only barely spoken to Kochanski. It was his biggest regret ever, never getting up the nerve to ask her out, and Rimmer knew that, the bastard! But then, if he knew, why not bring _that_ up? Why make up something new and nonsensical when he already had a winning hand?

Lister's discomfiture was mother's milk to Rimmer. He felt rejuvenated. He stood and wandered over to the mirror to look at his new finery again. Lister, lost in thought, did not notice.

Holly's head popped in. "You look like a jackarse," she said to Rimmer, frowning.

"I said smeg off, you batty excuse for a slide rule!" Rimmer barked, as Holly sighed and popped off.

"I shagged her?" Lister muttered to himself. It wasn't exactly the sort of thing you would forget. It was not a pair of sunglasses, or the itchy scarf your gran knitted for you that had a tendency to 'accidentally' fall off on the tube. An essay on 'My Holidays' this was not. The grim realization was beginning to rise in Lister that something was not quite right with his memory. Which was horrible, because it meant Rimmer had been right all those times he'd claimed he 'wasn't quite right in the head'. Lister shuddered.

Great space, had the man truly forgotten? That was rich. That was beyond rich. It was Rockefeller, Bill Gates, and Harry Beetlebaum, all on the same yacht. "Well," he drawled, "I don't know _precisely_. Condoms disappeared, but I would not presume to guess what you did with them." He gave his best disgusted look, but Lister had his head in his hands.

Lister was trying desperately to think, think like he'd never thought before. It was Olympic level thinking. With sudden resolve, he looked up, a glimmer of possible hope having surfaced. "Nah, man. You've got it wrong. You must have got it wrong. It was that little brunette from Catering, yeah? What was her name? Back when we first started bunking together? I sh... dated her a couplea times. You must be thinking of her." Kari, her name had been. Or Kate. Karen. Definitely something with a K. Or a C. Lovely breasts. Average bum.

Lister must be doing the flat-out denial route to get Rimmer off of his back. There was no other explanation. But if he were trying _that_ hard, Rimmer must have gotten to him. The hologram rolled his eyes exaggeratedly. "Whatever you say, Lister." He started to whistle as he trotted out of the room. That was the way of any good bit of provocation. Leave it to simmer. He would show the Cat his new uniform while Lister stewed. His new ensemble would put the stuck-up pussy in his place!

Impossible. Lister chewed gamely at his lower lip, bending over to hug his knees. Something was clearly wrong. Clearly very wrong, and what was more, Rimmer seemed to know more about it than Lister did. Shaking with effort, Lister focused his entire being on the act of remembering. Yes, something was definitely off. He'd been feeling distant, off-key and depressed lately, but he'd thought it was just the situation getting to him. Well, what if it weren't? What if his mind was having some sort of reaction to... something? What had he done to his brain lately? He chewed and chewed, soon tasting the unmistakable irony tang of blood, and then it came to him.

Smeg.

Rimmer's Death-day present. It hadn't seemed like any sort of big deal at the time. People erased their memories all the time, didn't they? It was like getting your teeth cleaned or having plastic surgery; you didn't think about it. You certainly didn't think it was going to _harm_ you. Still, he thought with trepidation, this was an old, old ship. God knows Holly wasn't all there anymore, and nor were the vending machines, so why should the memory eraser be any different?

He should be able to work it out. He'd read that somewhere. You couldn't erase memory patterns all the way without actually doing surgery on your brain, and so erasure left patterns. Patterns you could trace, like brushing a pencil against a notepad to see what had been written on the sheet that had been removed. Lister's inner pencil raced back and forth like mad, searching for a pattern; any pattern. And suddenly, without warning, there it was. A bed. His bed. His bunk. Kochanski sitting in it, ice-cream on her cheek. A tongue (his?) sticking out and licking it off her. Laughter. The soundtrack to a movie, somewhere in the distance. Breasts. A pinball smile exclaiming a moan of utter pleasure as a pale back arched, and another face, suddenly, freckled, pale red-blonde hair, sad blue eyes, and...

He rushed to his feet, suddenly violently ill, running for the toilet.


	2. Chapter 2

"Yeah, Rimmer - would that have been so tough?" Lister stood in the middle of the floor in their shared quarters, gesticulating wildly. He had a lot on his mind, and Rimmer was finally there for him to tell it to. He'd been gone for weeks and weeks, and Lister had spent all that time thinking. About a lot of things. "A nice, soft bed? Champagne? Some candles, even? Or just a soft, grassy hillside bathed in the glow of the moon?"

Rimmer looked up from the page he was attempting, with little success, to badger a skutter into turning. "What?" he asked, irate. He had not seen the man in over a month, since the smegging... thing that had happened. Rimmer had taken an extended holiday; he had not even pretended to have a destination in mind. He had wandered the diesel decks in a fury, not sleeping, yelling his upset with flecks of hologrammatic saliva in the huge engine rooms that swallowed his words and regurgitated nothing back. He only returned when he thought he was desperate for company. After a half-day, he was about ready to head back down again.

"Well, you know," Lister shrugged. Perhaps he'd been too optimistic thinking Rimmer would take in any of this, much less agree with him. Well, no, Lister wasn't stupid. He'd known Rimmer wouldn't agree. Wouldn't admit to agreeing, anyway. But maybe, if he could just make the man _listen_ , some of it would stick in his murky mind for him to mull over later, and think that he came to conclude it on his own accord. "I'm just saying there'd be better things to imagine, is all."

Especially since the month that had passed hadn't seemed to have knocked the smegging psi-moon to the hazy depths of Lister's memory. The subject could not become dead quickly enough to suit Rimmer. He let a little acid seep into his voice. "And a nice Kochanski to shag on that moonlit hillside. Don't make me ill. I'd rather get buggered by my self-loathing beast."

Lister's eyes widened. "Buggered?" Surely not even Rimmer's psyche would... Oh, but it was Rimmer's psyche, the cynic inside of him sniggered. Nothing was impossible.

Did Lister think his agave cactus comment had been poetic license? "Yes, miladdio! Did you not stop to wonder why I was _oiled_?"

"What... buggered? By yerself?"

Rimmer rolled his eyes. "By the psi-moon! Not myself!"

It was, Lister thought guiltily, quite funny when you thought about it. "That's a bit kinky even for you, eh?"

Oh, _that_ was rich. That was buttered eggnog with heavy cream. "Even for me? I'm not the one who wanks to thoughts of Betty Rubble because he's afraid Fred will kick his arse if he thinks of Wilma!"

Lister blushed. "There's nothing wrong with that! Nothing a red-blooded male wouldn't do!"

"Nothing that a man with lager in his veins instead of blood wouldn't do," Rimmer sniffed.

"At least I can take my drinks and hold 'em in," Lister snapped back, nastily. "We all remember last time you got drunk." It had taken Rimmer quite a while to dare to experiment with giving himself food and drink, and after a while he just seemed to have stopped bothering. Lister had thought this odd, but as with everything the hologram did, he'd filed it away under 'standard Rimmer weirdness,' and shrugged it off. He'd tried to get drunk with the rest of them on occasion, but this too had stopped abruptly when Lister had found him one morning hovering between the upper and lower bunk, his light-bee stuck - inexplicably - in the crack between the plasti-steel frame and Lister's mattress.

Rimmer's lip twisted. He was hoping they had mostly forgotten. "Look, forget about it!" he barked. "I don't even know why you brought this up!"

Lister crossed his arms and looked at Rimmer for a while, then shook his head. He'd hoped they could talk, that he might have a chance to explain some of the things going through his mind; the turmoil of memories and feelings that had triggered... ah well. Who was he kidding? Talk? All they ever did was bicker. It was getting worse, not better.

Rimmer watched Lister watch him, then turned back to his book. The skutter had fled, and the same blasted pages that he had been reading for the last hour stared up at him. He sighed and turned away from them, flopping back onto his bunk. "I could touch, on that psi-moon," he muttered.

Lister gave a frustrated cry. "I know! That's the thing! Such a waste, man. Such..." He trailed off, looking away sadly. How could he explain something he didn't fully understand himself? It had all seemed so simple while Rimmer was gone. He'd had room to breathe, to contemplate; to sort out some of the mess in his mind. The lost memories had started dripping into place over the last year, forming a confusing puddle on the floor of his consciousness. There was no rhyme or reason to any of it. Events did not slot neatly into place chronologically, nor did the fragments that did appear seem to make any sense on their own. These past few weeks had been the first time he'd been able to assemble some sort of timeline of what he _did_ remember now.

He _had_ dated Kochanski - that much was certain. Then something had happened - he hadn't quite figured that one out yet - and he'd gone drinking with Petersen on planet leave, and they had... they had... Unfortunately, this was one of the clearest memories Lister had, even without the tattoo on his inner thigh proudly proclaiming "I  <3 Petersen" in flaming red ink. So yeah, there'd been that, and then... some sort of fight. With Selby, possibly. He'd been angry about something, but the specifics were all a blur. A table. There had been a table. "All right?" Selby had said, then he'd tossed a cigarette into Lister's chili. Or was it Petersen? There was something about Petersen... having fun. Having fun, and someone was laughing at him. _'Come on, lay off with the being coy. Everyone...'_ A feeling of nausea, and then something about a ladder. The ladder was important. _'No arguing who gets to be on top, right?'_ Selby claiming to be his superior officer - but he was never that, was he? And it all petered out with the strange impression of... hamsters? And throughout it all seeped the distinct impression that it was all connected to Rimmer, somehow. And for the life of him, Lister couldn't figure out why. That was one of the things he'd wanted to talk about. Rimmer, however, did not seem to be in his most reasonable mood. Not that his most reasonable moods were all that reasonable.

"That oil felt..." Rimmer paused. Yes, the oil had been one of the highlights of the whole venture, oil borne on the slender hands of those lovely ladies. Who had refused to use erotic persuasion. Bitches. "Itchy," he finished. Lister's words percolated once that thought was out of his head, as the man looked at him askew. "Waste?"

"Yeah."

"What, you can't annoy me enough as a hologram?" Rimmer asked. Smegging hell, the irritation that man could dish out to the dead was enough to make one spare. Rimmer had not realized how much the busy life of the JMC had done for his sanity. If he were corporeal again, and alone on the ship with Lister - hell!

Lister smiled sadly. "That's all you can imagine, isn't it? The idea that someone might want something good for ya is just beyond you." They could have had fun, Rimmer and him, if things were different. If Lister knew what the smeg he actually wanted. If Rimmer could stop feeling sorry for himself for a goited minute and try to enjoy what he could of his death rather than spending every moment trying to come up with more reasons why he should be miserable.

Rimmer frowned. "Good? When did you ever want anything good for me? You wanted to spill lager on my revision timetables, and put curry in my boots, and itching powder in my ship-issue condoms. Not to mention that picture you took of my tadger and put on the bulletin board!" Rimmer plowed on, determined to get the gamut of Lister's wrongs against him out, even if it would take a year to sound every note.

"For a laff, yeah!" Rimmer had no sense of humor, that was the trouble. Perhaps if he'd had one, Lister could have told him a few racy jokes and called it a night, but no. Rimmer had to take it upon himself to annoy him to the point where only a major practical joke would satisfy.

"Laugh." Rimmer shook his head. "That wasn't in the _least_ bit funny."

"People laughed!" Lister said, defensively.

"The common folk laughed! Those drunkard friends of yours laughed!" Rimmer stared at the bunk above him. Bums, all. "They laugh when you flick snot across the table!"

Lister snorted. "'The Common Folk'!"

"Yes!"

"That's rich, that is. What're you then? Better than the rest of us?" He shouldn't be surprised, really. Rimmer had always had an air of perceived superiority around him. The looks he'd given Lister sometimes, when they were out working their shifts; trying to give the impression his subordinate was no more important to him than the gunk he'd just scraped out of the bottom of the candy dispenser. And where was Rimmer from? Io, right? Miners, the lot of them. Working-class heroes who no doubt sniggered behind the backs of upstart social climbers like the Rimmers.

Rimmer frowned. "Of course!" That should be obvious to someone of even Lister's limited mental capacity.

Something about the lightness of Rimmer's retort, like it was the natural thing in the world, made Lister's gut start to turn. "What have you accomplished that's so bloody great, eh?" He found himself moving closer, glaring, as if daring the other man to embarrass himself further.

"I have ambition!" Rimmer jumped out of his bunk, overcome by emotion. "I want to _make_ something of myself!" And damn it, he would! Just because he had never come remotely close to doing that in his life, and was dead, did not mean he wouldn't, in time!

"I'm talking real things, Rimmer; actual things." The image of Rimmer hunched over his books, fists clenched around a chewed down pencil, nagged at Lister. Back when he could touch, what lovely things the man had chosen to grasp, eh? And all that hard work with nothing to show for it. "Things you've _done_. Not just dreamed away about."

Actual things? Oh, just watch Arnie J. pull out an actual thing or two! "I took the astronavigation exam thirteen times! I didn't pass, but I tried! Twelve years long service! The most efficient vending shift on Red Dwarf! And what have _you_ done?" Rimmer swallowed the spit that threatened to fly out of his mouth as he looked down his nose at Lister. "Daydreamed of a farm on Fiji?"

"Yer all talk, Rimmer; all talk an' no getting anywhere." Rimmer's face drew Lister in like a magnet. One of those annoying ones with the novelty faces painted on them.

Rimmer pulled back slightly, not wanting the irritating little man to get angry enough to overlap him. How would the smegger like it if someone just walked right through _him_? "And where have _you_ gotten, mister Last Man Alive?"

Yeah, thanks, Lister thought. Like he needed a reminder. "I don't go 'round saying I'm better than you, though. Dreams are good. They keep ya goin'. But you had a chance to make yers come true, and what do you do? Make up some slobbering monster with an over-sized dildo to screw ya over!" He gave Rimmer a grim look. Fecking waste. They could have had a paradise, could have stayed there. Maybe forever. Maybe all sorts of things, but no. Rimmer would rather be fucked up the arse with a cactus.

Oh, so now Rimmer's captivity was his own fault? Rimmer felt his lip quiver with anger. "I had no control over that moon."

"That so?" If Rimmer had thought Lister was going to back down, he had another think coming.

The evidence was beyond obvious. Rimmer spread his hands. "Why would I have - made that?"

"You tell me, man." Why did Rimmer do anything, Lister thought, as he searched the hologram's face. It looked quite different as such close range, the eyes intense, the lips twitching like nervous caterpillars. Not unpleasant, though, on the whole.

Rimmer sat down on his bunk, trying to act as if he could feel it, bounce on it. Which he could not smegging do. It was like sitting on a strong breath of air, with a bum that was numbed to insensibility with ice. He did not want to think about the implications of a psi-moon. So he did not. He had something else to distract him, anyway, something that would put Lister on the defensive. Where he belonged. "Why did you lie, you smegger?"

Lister closed his eyes. That's what he'd been trying to find out. He wasn't entirely sure that was the right question, though. "I don't know," he said, quietly.

"Profound insight, Listy. Thank you for that." Rimmer flopped back onto his bunk, not feeling it at his back. "It all makes sense, now."

"Was out of line though." That much was certain. None of what he'd said to get off that smegging place had been true, but then again, denying it had not been the whole truth either. Lister's voice was soft and quiet as he went on. "Not something to joke around with." He studied the wall.

"Nothing _you_ joke around with is," Rimmer snorted, putting one arm behind his head.

Lister stole a glance. "Would been nice though. That's all I'm saying. Moonlight, drink; some music, maybe. Maybe I wouldn't have lied, then." The word 'lie' stung like an aching tooth, and Lister cringed. But that was it exactly; in a proper setting, in a _normal_ setting, he might have felt comfortable enough to explain the true - if oddly complicated - way he did feel about Rimmer.

"Hm. With Kochanski and a nice little romantic venue, you wouldn't have told me you loved me. Pardon me if I would not have been delighted, Listy."

"That's..." Lister turned away, his arms crossed, and gave a deep sigh. "Ah, what's the use." There was no way of winning it. And honestly, had he been Rimmer - oh thank the stars he wasn't, but had he been - he wouldn't have trusted anything coming out of his mouth ever again. A right mess, this was, a right mess. He dropped his arms to his sides limply.

"Yes, what _is_ the use. We're not going back there," Rimmer ground. "And it's all clear." Yes, it was clear that Lister thought he was a _plaything_ , without any emotions. Well, none that mattered, really. Just enough to make it fun to jerk him around like a yo-yo.

This was all a bit much to be facing sober. Lister fished around for a can of lager on the table. "Crystal." He smiled slightly. "So I won't ever touch you again, right?" He kept looking, mournfully, his hand on the can. That body... And he could have touched it, too. Why hadn't he? Well, he had. He hadn't been able to help himself. Sliding a hand up that thigh, feeling muscle and flesh; a living body underneath the red velour...

"You can't." Rimmer scratched his hair. He had almost forgotten what it was like to touch - to _really_ touch. Even his ability to feel himself was blunted by his hologrammatic status; it felt like his fingers were slightly frostbitten, all the time. Just a shade numb. Like the holo-food, which tasted like Styrofoam. The feeling on the psi-moon had been _real_ feeling. Living-feeling.

"No." Waste, bloody waste. No way to ever grasp that leg again, stroking further up, cupping... hell, where was his mind going? Was that... Was that what he wanted?

"I'm the only one who can touch me," Rimmer muttered. Not even all that well, he added internally. He rubbed his chin.

Lister looked down and opened the can, concentrating on this act, knowing that when he looked up, as he would have to eventually, he would have to confront something he'd been avoid for - hell - years now. And there it was; Rimmer's hand. Rimmer's hand rubbing his chin. The only thing that could touch a hologram was a hologram, Lister thought, staring. The only thing. Nothing else.

No good. It was still the dull not-quite-touch that it had always been. That he had gotten used to, until that smegging moon had reminded him of what he had lost. He put his hand on his chest and looked at it, sullenly. "It gets rather dull."

His beer forgotten now, Lister let himself be lost in this view; hands on a body too damn gorgeous not to be touched. "Does... does it, now."

"Yes." Rimmer started to fiddle with his shoulder clasps, trying to feel the metal buttons. Some perverse part of him made him keep trying, impressing the magnitude of his loss into himself. He undid the clasps and rubbed the undershirt underneath, not feeling the fabric nearly as sensitively as he had felt that white robe.

His mouth open, Lister tried to put his beer down without taking his eyes off of Rimmer. He missed the table a few times before succeeding, his only thoughts now images; images of a naked, oiled torso, writhing, sweating, gleaming. Not being touched. Smegging hell, not being touched!

Rimmer noted the odd silence, and looked over to make sure Lister had become engrossed in a beer or a dirty magazine. He frowned as he saw that the smegger was _staring_ at him, like he was a roach in the corner that was about to get stomped. "What?"

Lister licked his lips, trying to find words; the right words, this time. "You look..."

Rimmer suddenly noted that he had pulled his tunic half-off. He pushed it back into place. It must have looked like he was... stripping. And Lister had been staring. Ice started to run along his spine.

No more lies, Lister thought, moving a little closer. Truth, the heartfelt truth. "I wish I could touch you." Nothing was more true than this.

Rimmer raised an eyebrow. Hadn't he already? Felt up Rimmer's thigh, like some smegging fag? Space help him, Rimmer had let him, so excited by the novelty of the sensation that he hadn't stopped to think that it was another man feeling him up. Lister, no less! Rimmer had _seen_ where that hand had been. "That'd be something _fun_ for you to _giggle_ at?"

No, Lister realized to his surprise, this was not about any practical joke, or some inane way of passing time. His eyes followed the line of Rimmer's jaw and the fall of his uniform, where his hands rested. "No. It'd be something I needed." Yes. That sounded right. He did need this. Shame he'd lied even to himself, pushing those thoughts away. How quickly would they have lifted from that swamp had he let his hand slide further up, grabbed Rimmer by the hand and dragged him to one of those rickety bunks in the 'bug, exploring that body while he could?

"Now... you're just being confusing." Rimmer glared at Lister. But the man was merely looking, wide-eyed - hell, he was leering.

"I know," Lister muttered in frustration. "I'm sorry." He hunched down. He had no right to do what he wanted to right now, but he had to try. Magnet. Yes, the man was a highly annoying magnet.

_Sorry_? And _leering_ , Well, Lister always had been a bit of a poof, the way he cried when he watched romantic movies, the way he had no respect for the proper conventions of masculinity and discipline. Rimmer felt an odd thrill at the thought that he actually had some _control_ over Lister. So, the man was a poof, and he wanted to stare, did he? Rimmer's hand moved slightly, opening his overshirt again.

Lister could only breathe, open-mouthed. This had not been the reaction he had anticipated. Impossible - after what he'd done to Rimmer? Right; no matter, he needed to enjoy this while he could.

"You want to see this?" Rimmer asked, his voice cracking at the end as his bravado slipped. "Selby and Chen aren't around to giggle at the photos, miladdio," he added, nervously.

Light, Lister thought. A person made of light. Knowing how much Rimmer hated it when something, much less some _one_ , reminded him of his intangibility, Lister very carefully reached his hand out to where the edge of Rimmer's hand should be. Taking care not to move beyond that non-surface, his fingers tracing it slowly, something at the interface making his neck hair prickle and his tooth-cap ache.

Rimmer stared at Lister's hand. What the smeg? Did Lister think he could feel something if the goit put his hand at the interface? Rimmer felt exactly what he always did, which was nothing. But Lister was still staring, open-mouthed, and Rimmer - well, the thrill of potentially having a hold over the man who would never respect him properly for _anything_ was intoxicating. He unsnapped the waist of his tunic, shrugging out of it, and lay there in his undershirt.

Hell, he was going to do it. 'It' not being very well-defined, granted, but he was going along with Lister's subtle suggestions, and merely that in itself... Lister bit his lower lip, watching. He exhaled deeply.

Lister was still fascinated, still staring. And, somehow, Rimmer was erect. Was it the attention? After all, Lister had his clothes on, didn't he? If Rimmer were gay, he'd only pop one if another man got his kit off. He was just... getting off on the power of it. Yes, that made perfect sense. Perfect! Rimmer had always loved power. Perhaps this was a way to have some even as a smegging light projection. He pulled up his undershirt, tossing it aside to disappear as his tunic had. He lay back down, feeling somewhat awkward. He did, after all, have a body that had made the women at the annual JMC talent show wave money and chant for him to leave his clothes on. But Lister was still staring. Maybe the man _was_ space-crazy.

Moving across the non-surface from Rimmer's hand to his chest, hesitantly, Lister got down on his knees beside the bunk. He was fully expecting Rimmer to flip at any moment, throw a fit and scream at Lister to get the hell out of there, but that was as maybe. The more he watched, the more Lister knew he needed this. Had needed this for so long. Whatever 'this' was.

"Why?" Rimmer asked. His erection was now pushing at his trousers, and he wanted to make damn sure it was not there on false pretenses.

Having noticed Rimmer's now quite prominent erection, it took a lot for Lister to bring himself to look up from it and meet Rimmer's gaze. He couldn't speak; words would only confuse this further. He hoped his eyes would communicate, if nothing else, the honest lust now burning in him.

Rimmer wondered what the smeg gay men did with each other. "Maybe it's a good thing you can't touch me," he muttered, gamely.

Oh hell, this was Rimmer. He kept forgetting. Who knew what was going through that neurotic mind. "Don't do this if you don't want to," Lister said with a quiet sadness.

Rimmer frowned, halfheartedly resting his palm on his erection. "What am I doing?"

Lister caught his breath, the anticipation of what seemed to be about to happen constricting his throat. And his trousers, just a bit. "Just... don't do anything you don't want, is all."

The nerve of the man! Presuming to give Rimmer _leave_ to do... whatever he was doing! "I don't need your smegging permission." Rimmer pulled his trousers open, keeping his hand over his erection. "If _you_ want to watch..." This was all on Lister, after all; if he wanted to get off on watching his bunkmate toss one...

Had he not been as turned on as he was, Lister might have stopped to wonder _why_ he was so turned on. Now, all he was capable of was a soft sighing. "Yes..." he whimpered weakly.

Rimmer's lip twisted. Lister looked like he was watching a naked woman. Rimmer started to finger his own erection, stroking the head gently. He barely registered the numb overtone of holo-wanking, caught up as he was in watching Lister stare. Smeg, now the fagging queer had an erection, too! Rimmer felt absurdly turned on, for no reason he could put his finger on. Maybe it was because his fingers were otherwise occupied. He whined quietly, Lister shifting out-of-focus as Rimmer stroked the underside of his own cock with his forefinger.

He needed something to steady himself, Lister thought. All this heavy breathing was making his head spin. That had to be it, right? Falling forwards, not taking his eyes off Rimmer's groin, he placed one hand on either side of the hologram, pushing against the bunk.

Rimmer's eyes widened slightly. But, after all, Lister could not touch him, and the idea that Lister was enjoying this was just too, too rich. If only there were anyone else to tell, someone else to share the gossip that Lister got excited watching his bunkmate masturbate! Rimmer pushed his trousers to mid-thigh, stroking his balls with his other hand.

Long, slender hands caressing a long, slender member; it shouldn't be this exciting! Lister didn't question it though; he merely closed his eyes for a moment as a quiet moan escaped him. His mouth was hanging open now, his tongue nearly on its way out, hovering above Rimmer's... yes, Rimmer's erection. Lister hadn't seen a lot of other men erect. Quite frankly, it had never been a subject of interest for him, and so he had very little grounds for comparison. It seemed to him, though, in as much as he was capable of reasoning right now, that it somehow complemented the man's shape, a natural extension of the rest of his body. The color and dimensions were like a mirror image of his own; longer, but slimmer, and pale like the rest of the man. Well. Perhaps not _longer_ , really. It almost looked that way, though, and the difference... It was intoxicating.

Rimmer looked at Lister's ecstatic face above him. But no, there was nobody to gossip to, and what good was power that he couldn't make use of? What use was it if Lister got off on watching Rimmer if all it was good for was... making masturbation more fun for Rimmer?

_Oh, smeg!_ Rimmer thought, desperately, as another explanation for why this was so exciting began to form. Rimmer concentrated on wanking to try to keep it from forming and making his day very, very bad. And Lister still stared, casting quick glances at Rimmer's face, as Rimmer put his fist around his cock, stroking hard, rubbing his testicles firmly. He had a new mission; drive those proto-thoughts right out of his mind. "Oh, god..." he whined. Well, he never had been much of a theist.

"Yes..." Lister sighed. Suspended above what he couldn't touch, not with his mouth, not anything, Lister's hips began thrusting involuntarily.

Hips, moving in concert, like dancing, like he had read sex was supposed to be like. "Oh.. my." Rimmer stroked himself harder, running precome around his head with his forefinger.

Lister fumbled at his trousers with one hand, lost. He pulled down his own pants and boxers in one movement, impatient now. And a part of him wanted Rimmer to see, to see him, if he could do nothing else. Images of what he would have done if touching were an option now flooded his mind, egging him further on - like he needed any extra simulation.

Rimmer had seen Lister's penis when he was in the man's body, but somehow, the fundamental unfairness of the thick slice of kielbasa that nature had bequeathed on the man was more pointed when the monster was hovering right over Rimmer's own slender erection. Rimmer started at it, wondering how the smeg something like that would ever fit in a tart's good bits, let alone another man's bum. He tossed harder.

Grabbing his cock with a practiced hand, Lister groaned as he began to stroke himself, slowly at first. The rational part of him, confined as it was now, to a small space in the back of his mind, suggested that he'd better enjoy this while he could, because it damned well wasn't likely to ever happen again. Lister tried to ignore it.

"Smeg... gah..." Rimmer floated on a distant holo-orgasm, coming in slow, thick spurts, watching Lister's monster.

He should have known Rimmer wasn't one to last any great length of time, that rational part taunted again, and Lister panted in frustration. The climax was thrilling to watch though, as if part of it had surged across the distance between them, and landed in his own mind. Aching for release, Lister thrust harder into his own hand, there being no reason to delay his own orgasm now.

Rimmer was not about to wait for those thoughts dancing in his head to start to coalesce again. He spread his legs slightly and pushed one semen-covered finger inside of himself, flushing beet-red as he realized how that must look to Lister.

Rimmer's actions barely registered intellectually in Lister's hazy mind, but he saw that finger, long, shapely, an echo of the rest of the man, and something inside him surged as he kept on stroking, kept staring.

Oh, fecking smeg Lister to Pluto's demoted orbit! Rimmer pushed a second finger inside. Two was almost too much, when he was alive, but with the distant sensation of his projection, three was just enough, if he rammed his prostate like a twentieth-century pedestrian walk-light trigger.

Lister slowly fell into a rhythm to match Rimmer's, eyes following the movement of those fingers as though he'd bet money on them in some absurd race. It was intensely erotic, though this was not the word Lister would have thought he would use to describe it. In fact, no words described anything for him at the moment, his world composed now entirely of feeling and want and sensation.

Rimmer ran his free hand through what semen had fallen on his stomach, and used that one to stroke his cock as it re-hardened. It occurred to him that he had not yet heard Lister giggle with that hideous snort he had, and Rimmer opened one eye, nervously.

Lister gasped, open-mouthed. His gaze moved from Rimmer's hand to his face and back again, wanting, needing, almost hurting from the release as yet denied him.

Rimmer opened both eyes, his brow furrowing. This was definitely not normal. Lister was finding _all_ of this... appealing? And smeg it all, Rimmer was enjoying it, too; he was fecking getting off on tossing for another man. He rammed his fingers in deeply, the zing of sensation driving away thought. He gasped and arched slightly.

That toned body arching in pleasure, his face, a few precious moments, unguarded and open, made Lister's heart sing. "Beautiful..." he only barely managed to choke out. Such beauty hiding underneath the bitter, neurotic exterior. It was like some miraculous conjuring trick.

Rimmer stroked hard and fast, matching his strokes to the pulse of his fingers in his rear, adding a third. Smeg, he was horny. He was hornier than a field of Texas livestock. He moaned.

The hand Lister was using to hold him up off of the hologram slid as close to Rimmer as it could without breaking into him, but in Lister's haze of lust, it did, from time to time. He stroked faster and harder, pleasure and the need to come being the only things of importance in his universe. That, and watching the man below him. But in a way, all of those things were one.

Rimmer shoved his fingers deep as he came again, more semen glopping onto his stomach. He could not look away from Lister's face, Lister's _eager_ face, as he whined through his teeth. He stroked hard through his orgasm, spreading himself with his fingers. He wondered how much he would have to spread to fit _that_ monster inside of himself.

Lister fixated on Rimmer's face, trying to catch the hologram's eyes as his own climax came. He exhaled deeply, almost a sigh, as he shuddered in aftershock. Oh, god, this was so much more than he'd ever... Tears came to his eyes. It had been so long, so long since he'd shared anything like this with another person, someone who wasn't just a brainless algorithm, or a picture in a flimsy magazine. A person.

Rimmer frowned as he pulled his fingers out. He had spread himself too far, in his - what, his enthusiasm? - and he spasmed painfully. He looked at where Lister's semen had fallen right through his body, and the thoughts he had been avoiding began to congeal, like the ejaculate that was drying on his stomach.

"Wish... Wish I could touch you..." Lister slumped into a heap.

Rimmer looked at where Lister fell through him, like the bunk was his own, like any holograms who thought they might have their boundaries respected could go smeg. "Well, you can't," Rimmer muttered. He had been had, yet again, by Lister. Smegging hell.

Lister made a quiet noise, almost like a sob, and Rimmer shifted. "Oh, come _on_ , Listy." He grasped for bravado, the only thing left to him. "It wasn't _that_ bad."

Lister straightened and sniffed. He looked at Rimmer curiously. He honestly had no idea what to expect. Words and terms floated around his head, presenting possible definitions of what they might call what was between them now, but he showed them away, angrily. He could deal with that later. Right now he needed to know what Rimmer felt.

Rimmer looked down at himself. Well, he _had_ been an idiot, hadn't he? Thinking that Lister was somehow enraptured with him, that he had some kind of erotic hold over the smegger. No, it had somehow turned itself completely around, and Lister had been able to make _Rimmer_ lose all control, to fecking strip and wank and finger himself up the arse for Lister to see, doubtless to file away for another smegging prank. Rimmer carefully schooled his expression to his normal disdainful one. He was damned if he was going to give Lister... any more satisfaction than he had already.

Lister smiled a careful smile, waiting. This was Rimmer's call.

Rimmer tried to wipe his sticky hand off on the covers. His hand, of course, went right through it, and he had to wipe it off on his trousers, leaving dark red streaks. He looked like a smegging idiot. He could re-form a clean uniform, but he just did not have the presence of mind, blast him.

The display was almost as mesmerizing as the earlier undressing and - well - sex. Lister watched, then came to his senses, tucking his own penis in nicely, putting his trousers back on. He had time. Rimmer would talk when he felt like it. Pushing him would do no good at all.

Yes, there Lister was, all buttoned up and grinning like he always was, as giggly and goofy as if this had never happened. But oh, it had, and Rimmer dreaded to know what the fallout would be. Would it involve the Cat? Kryten? Holly? No, not smegging Holly! Rimmer struggled to pull his own trousers up, trying to swallow panic. He refastened them and sat up, breathing deeply and straightening his back. "Well."

There had to be something he could say, something that could assure Rimmer he was sincere, that this wasn't some whim or prank or whatever else Rimmer might suspect. Lister knew him well enough by now to know a little about how his mind worked. And yes, it struck him, there was one thing. "For what it's worth, I was lying."

Lister's game became clear. Oh, Rimmer hadn't been appropriately devastated, had he? He had come back, after all, after only a month. So Lister decided to pull him up in order to drop him from a greater height. Oh, did he think Rimmer would _despair_ at being told, again, that Lister did not love him? Lister must think him an utter pansy. "Yes, you said so." What, was he hoping Rimmer would give up in heartache, ask Lister to turn him off, give Lister a chance to generate Kochanski? No smegging way! Rimmer was not... a fecking weakling. He could handle this. Smeg, it was a compliment to have Lister not love him! He repeated that to himself. A smegging compliment. He stood and walked over to the mirror. His legs would not stay still.

"But not when you think." There. That ought to set him thinking. Rimmer was the sort of person who needed to sort these things out for himself. Lister gave a slightly wider smile, then dropped it, straightening himself as much as he could manage, and stood.

Rimmer paid no attention. He did not want to hear any more of Lister's little pet mindfuck. He started to re-form his undershirt, but it would not work. It was the wrong color, or the wrong size, or just a scrap of cloth draped across his shoulders. Smeg, what was wrong? It must be... his light bee. "Smegging crap," he growled.

Well, that much was true. Lister wondered, briefly, if there was anything else he could say or do that would help Rimmer work this out with himself, but no. Rimmer leaving him alone was what had helped him work through his feelings after all, so that's what Lister would do for Rimmer in turn. He would leave. "Yeah." And so, he did.

Rimmer gave up on the shirt and sat down heavily as Lister left. Smegging hell, he had screwed it up again. A simple power ploy over Lister. Was that so difficult? The man, all slack-jawed at Rimmer's stripping - but he was good, too good. Had Rimmer forgotten the sincerity on his face when he said he loved Rimmer? He had managed to fake _that_ , after all, so what was a little slack-jawed lustiness? Rimmer had fallen for it like a novice bungee jumper, letting the man suck him in, getting excited, doing something that was damn near sex, if a bit longer-lasting. The coup de grace, at the end, reassuring Rimmer that he did not care about him one bit, delivered just as Rimmer was starting to think the man might be... interested. Rimmer rubbed his face. Well, that was all for the best, wasn't it? Rimmer had not the slightest interest in other men! But Lister...

"Smegging... bastard." Rimmer said, weakly, as he stared at his book. Open to a page he was smegging sick of reading.


	3. Chapter 3

Rimmer walked into Starbug's midsection, his back as straight as a slide-rule, his steps precise. He was Rimmer, after all, and Rimmer was always precise and orderly about everything. _Everything_. There was all of the difference in the world between Rimmer and that sad, squalid wreck of a git of a man, William Doyle. Rimmer was Rimmer. Hadn't Kryten said so? Yes. This was reality, not a game or a fevered dream. Rimmer told himself that a few times as he reached out to grip the edge of the table, grimacing as his hands went right through it. Yes, this was reality, because he was a hologram and could not touch anything. Yes, that made _perfect_ smegging sense.

Practically bouncing his way through the little ship, Lister could scarcely remember why he had ever been unhappy or miserable about anything in his life. Smeg, what had he been thinking? Was a few years of boredom in space enough to make him doubt that things would always work out in the end? Well, this had been a right eye-opener. So what if things weren't always working the way they should, or Holly went a bit mental now and then? So what if it would take them a little while to find Earth, and there were some obstacles along the way? There were worse things. Giving a swirling turn as he sauntered into the mid-section, he caught Rimmer's eye, grinning wider.

Rimmer frowned and looked away from Lister's eyes, up at Lister's hair. The mess of tight curls that was not Sebastian's soft wave. Smug goddam stuck-up git, with his perfect hair and his trick kit and his expensive limo. That hadn't been the worst part, though. The worst part was how ready they had all been to believe it! How coolly Lister had fit that role, as if born to wear expensive clothes, striding in them in a way that would have drawn all eyes to him in a boardroom with respect. That was just unbearable. Lister was _better_ at being upper-class than Rimmer was. And Rimmer had worked so hard!

Following Rimmer's gaze, Lister giggled. "Yeah, right?" It was rather funny, all of it, now that they knew it wasn't true.

Rimmer closed his eyes. "Right." He did not want to look at the man who could be a high-class sophisticate with as much ease as he could be a leather-clad bum. It was simply smegging _unfair_.

Lister's smile diminished a little. Ah, there was no one to bring him down like Rimmer. Damn the man and the stupid goited feelings Lister's heart insisted he had for him. "Ah, come on," he tried cheerfully, walking over, "At least we're not brothers anymore!"

Rimmer opened his eyes and bit his lip. "No, we're not, are we?" he spat.

From bad to worse. Lister's mind had been working very hard to try to disregard the memory of realizing he'd had sex with his brother, but as usual, Rimmer's mind seemed to prefer brooding over such horrors. Lister felt his face grow serious. It wasn't real, it had never been; what was the use of dwelling on it?

Rimmer thought of Lister grabbing Rimmer's arm, being able to touch, looking at him - and was he thinking, as Rimmer had, about what they had done on Rimmer's bunk, and how much more they could do if Rimmer were alive, before finding out they were smegging _brothers_ , and wondering what kind of sick pervert would play a game where he had almost-sex with his own brother... "It's perfectly legal for us to..." Rimmer bit off the end of that sentence, glancing quickly at the cockpit. No, not a good topic of conversation, Rimsy, from almost every angle! And after all, they were back in reality again, where he was incorporeal and he and Lister weren't related, but Lister had only used Rimmer for fun anyway, hadn't he?

Lister spent a few hopeful moments studying Rimmer's face, but the man was as stubbornly unreadable as always. They had never talked about what had happened, that day, as they never talked about any of the things that might have resolved the tension between them. Knowing that anything he said now might potentially set off a chain-reaction in the mine-field that was the relationship between them, Lister asked very quietly, "What?"

Rimmer pulled himself together. Ludicrous, to dwell on any of it. Just a fevered dream. Where's your composure, Iron Balls? He smiled, weakly. "Yes..."

If only he had some inkling what the man was thinking! Any clue at all, any minor indication! Various expressions of uncertainty flickered across Lister's face as he tried to guess. Was he hurt? Relieved? Angry?

Lister was disconcerted? Rimmer did not think that possible. But it was somehow a waste to see Lister unhappy when it wasn't something Rimmer had deliberately done to provoke the unhappiness. "Oh, what on Io are you so hangdog about?" Rimmer stretched his face to make his smile less weak.

"Heh..." As Rimmer's vulture-like grimace that passed for a smile stretched across his face, Lister's smile carefully returned. Well, it had been one hell of a ride, hadn't it? No wonder if Rimmer was a little shook up. Lister caught his right hand jittering, as though about to reach out and touch Rimmer, give him a friendly pat on the arm before remembering. Despite the many things he'd wanted to do to the man over the years; punch him out, trip him, slap the back of his head when he was being an idiot, stroke that lovely chest... yes, all these impossible things; out of all of them, the worst was not being allowed these casual touches. They were so much a part of who Lister was, and without them, Rimmer seemed so much less... real.

"After all, you're not Eeeeevil Sebastian Doyle anymore," Rimmer sneered.

Lister snorted, relaxing a little. "No, thank god."

"What, didn't like the hair?" Rimmer asked, snidely. The man seemed to have enjoyed who he was, his looks, the respect he commanded. He did seem a little unhappy about being a mass murderer, but that was just the price of success, wasn't it?

It was hard not to give snarky comebacks when they both did it so well. "Yours? No, can't say I did!" There was a certain kind of friendliness to their bickering though, Lister felt, one that felt very welcome after all that had just happened.

Rimmer snorted, twisting his lip. "I never thought I would see hair that makes yours look good." His own hair had always plagued him with its unmanageability, and so William's had not bothered him too much. No, he was more bothered by the utter uselessness and utter grottiness. And he had been so quick to believe _that_ about himself!

Putting on a mock defensiveness, Lister retorted easily. "Hey, that hair was the only thing good about me in..." he made a complicated gesture to indicate the alternate reality, "there."

Rimmer raised an eyebrow. "As you say." The _only_ good thing? Wildebeest smeg. The only _bad_ thing had been that mass murderer detail. For the rest - Lister had just eaten it all up. Especially that high-quality kit, with the well-tailored wool coat and the suit, cloth so fine and soft that it moved like a whisper over his legs, clinging to them just slightly with every step. Oh, yes, Lister had just _hated_ that, hadn't he?

Lister's grin slowly grew. "Aaaw... We should celebrate, man!"

"Celebrate."

"Yeeeah - us not being, you know, _them_!" The idea having set foot in his mind now, Lister was surprised he hadn't thought of it sooner. Hell, the first thing he should have done the moment Holly told them was to dig out one of his secret caches - come to think of it, there was one right here in the mid-section, wasn't there? - and started celebrating himself into oblivion.

"Yes, thank space we're not them." That was something to celebrate - that he was not that horrid Doyle, and that Lister was not that suave one. Lister's idea of celebration was drunkenness and horrible singing, however. So why did he want Rimmer along, instead of Cat? But there _had_ been that - other thing that Lister had done, back on the bunk, hadn't there? Rimmer's lip twisted again, and he nodded. Well, he was expecting it now, wasn't he? He wouldn't be taken again, as he had the last time. He would be in control, for once. He tossed a quick look at the cockpit, ensuring that Kryten and Cat were engrossed in piloting Starbug back to Red Dwarf. Rimmer squared his shoulders and took the mechano-bull by the horns. "So, you want to celebrate," he said, a little more meaningfully.

Lister bounced back and forth, leaning in the general direction of the temporary quarters that sulked in the back of Starbug. "Well, yeah. Don't you?"

Rimmer's lip corners twisted upwards in a parody of a smile. "Sounds like a smashing suggestion, miladdio."

Trying to remember which one of them it was, Lister started rummaging around in some crates that were stashed in a corner. It would be good, this; him and Rimmer, having a drink, relaxing a little; maybe finally _talking_. And if nothing else, they would get drunk off their faces, which they sorely needed, too. Rimmer more than him, by the looks of it. The man seemed to get stiffer by the minute.

"What the smeg are you doing?" Rimmer asked, slightly worried about what might be in them.

Lister eventually emerged with something the size of a hip-flask. A grin split his face. Yes, this was the stuff!

Rimmer furrowed his brow at it. "What the smeg is _that_?"

Lister winked. "Something to help _me_ celebrate." There had been no label on either of the five bottles he'd found in a small box on board the small, derelict private yacht, but he'd given half a bottle's worth for Kryten to use as silver-polish. The stuff was potent. Lister gestured towards the quarters. "Come on, then!" He took a hefty swig of the bottle, relishing the numbing prickling running down his throat along with the liquid.

Rimmer looked at the bottle dubiously. Having Lister drunk might help him with what he had in mind, but the man got unpredictable - even more unpredictable, that is - when he was drunk. "Er, right." Rimmer followed Lister as the man danced his way towards the small bunkrooms.

Lister stopped in front of the first bunkroom and turned around cheerfully, opening the door. "After you, sir!"

Rimmer walked into the room with a determined stride. He knew what he was doing, yes. He would show the smegger that he was not such a hoity-toity high-class bastard, after all. Men of that standing did not lust after their superior officers, and they did not wank at the sight of naked holograms. They had self-control, a quality in which Lister was sadly lacking. Rimmer turned around in the middle of the stark grey room, facing Lister.

Lister took another long swig as the door closed behind them, feeling pleasantly at peace. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been alone with Rimmer without an undercurrent of anger and resentment between them. This was good. Comfortable. He started looking around for a chair - or anything more-or-less suitable to sit on.

Rimmer tried to force a condescending expression on his face, but there was too much cynicism and nervousness there already for it to fit. He started to pull off his red tunic, trying to find some happy medium between doing it as slowly as a smegging drop-a-dollarpound-in-my-pants stripper and just ripping the thing off. He tried to meet Lister's eyes meaningfully, but his own eyes kept sliding down. The thought that this meant he was in over his head was one he immediately squashed. He was Arnold smegging Rimmer, and he was capable. He was the capable man that William Doyle was not. He was the Sebastian that Lister had just _thought_ he could be.

Having found a chair that looked like it probably wouldn't fall apart under his weight, Lister dragged it towards the very rickety looking table by which Rimmer was standing... and looked up. The chair balanced unsteadily in his hand as Lister could do nothing but stare at the display in front of him.

"You want this?" Rimmer asked, pulling the tunic off and letting it disappear in red sparks as it fell away from him. He had to make an effort to keep his voice from squeaking.

Lister's mouth hung half-way open as he stared at Rimmer, now standing there in just a red undershirt and trousers. He tried to speak, but was unsteady on his feet; he clutched at the equally unsteady chair, trying to make sense of his even more unsteady thought processes.

Rimmer pulled off his undershirt in one motion, then stood there, unsure what to do with himself, bravado and nervousness tugging at him. He still could not meet Lister's eyes. Hell, he couldn't even look at his face. He stared at the flask in Lister's stubby brown hands.

Did he want this, Lister mused, as the words finally penetrated. What a question! He managed, very quietly, "Smeg, yes..." Rimmer coming to _him_ , offering himself, wanting this... Lister moved a little bit closer, his face a mask of lust.

Rimmer started to become erect at that 'smeg, yes.' A response to the power he was exercising. Yes. He worried at his lip, stroking his torso gamely, trying to imitate what he thought he should be doing to be sensual. He had no background for this. Women usually jiggled their breasts in order to be sexy, but he had nothing to jiggle. "You can't have it..."

Lister's hands were drawn to his own belt, subconsciously. He'd had to stop thinking about what had passed between them, because he'd have trouble walking if he did, and there were limits to the number of times a day a man could wank without risking permanent damage to himself, after all. So he'd tried to forget, hoping Rimmer would come to him - and he had! Quietly, somewhat desperately, in slightly higher register than normal voice, he asked, "Wha?" He hooked his hands into his belt, jittering a little.

Rimmer worked a shrug into his tentative self-stroking. "I'm a smegging holgram, Listy!" Or hadn't Lister noticed?

Lister reached out with one shaking hand, as if to touch one of Rimmer's hands. In quiet tones, having regained some control now, he said, "I know..." Stopping just before he'd break the barrier of light, he looked up at Rimmer's face.

Rimmer worried at his lip. That deep, husky voice was different from the one Lister usually used to speak with. He had heard it before, of course, when Lister had been having wet dreams, and it was passing strange to be _addressed_ by it.

"But if you weren't..." Lister stroked the projection of Rimmer's hand.

Rimmer bit his lip. "Yes." If he weren't, he would be Lister's smegging brother, wouldn't he?

"What would you want to do to me? What would you want me to do to you?" Lister whispered it, breathing against skin that wasn't really skin, and couldn't possibly feel what he was doing. But Lister could feel.

Rimmer backed up slightly. No, _no_! This was _Lister's_ smegging fantasy. This was Lister's time to spill all of the naughty thoughts he had about Rimmer, so Rimmer would be able to laugh at them. He started to pull off his boots, now a bent arm's length away from Lister. "You said you wanted... this. What would _you_ do?" The boots disappeared, as well.

Lister gave a quick, almost-sad smile. "Oh, eh." He looked at Rimmer and licked his lips. What _wouldn't_ he do? He'd had enough time to think about it, since they'd last done this. A lot of time...

Rimmer sucked at his lip and started to unfasten his trousers. Hell, Lister was practically pulling them off with his eyes. Rimmer's penis was quite firm, he noted, but he turned his attention back to Lister. "First off, I'd lick every inch of that lovely chest. Then," Lister licked his lips again, more slowly, his tongue out, "I'd go _lower_..."

That voice, that tongue, had an effect that Rimmer could not counter. His erection sprang out of his trousers as they opened. He pushed his trousers down, awkwardly, as Lister continued to _stare_. He did not know what to do with his hands as his trousers disappeared, and so he clasped them behind his back. That only highlighted the fact that he had a stiffy, he realized. But the way Lister was staring - well, this might work perfectly well with his plan. Yes.

Months of repressed lust surged into Lister at the sight of that deliciously eager cock, and he whimpered, falling to his knees. Hardly thinking anymore at all, he stuck his tongue out, grazing the edges of the projection-of-light cock, almost tasting it, though there was nothing there to taste. But if there wasn't, why did it feel so good?

Rimmer found himself panting. This was over and beyond anything that he might have imagined. Lister wanted to _suck_ him? It was perverted, even for Lister! A little precome started to seep out of his erection. "You... would..." he gasped.

Lister whimpered in frustration. This was not enough! He mumbled, "Swallow you whole..." Imagining it; the both of them tangible, clutching Rimmer to him, sucking that long, lean member in, burying it in his mouth... He gasped.

Rimmer grabbed his cock with one hand abruptly; it felt like it would leap up and run out of the room if he did not. "Smeg." But it was all right to be turned on by this, wasn't it? It was just a game, after all, and he _wasn't_ having any kind of... sexual feelings for his _brother_ , after all. It was just Lister.

Slowly unfastening his own belt, Lister kept sliding his tongue along the faintly staticky boundary of Rimmer's erection. Somehow, the prickling sensation only served to enhance his own desire. "Suck you so hard..." He was on the verge of delirium.

Rimmer started to buck slightly into his hand. He tried to grab a chair for support; his hand went through it, and he stumbled a bit. "You would?" Well, there was nothing wrong with enjoying yourself when you were attempting - a prank? a seduction? Nothing at all.

Lister was panting, his belt open. "Hell, yes." In a slightly different voice, more commanding, but still friendly, he added "Lick yer hand..."

Rimmer stared at Lister, wide-eyed, and licked the hand that was not holding his cock. It suddenly occurred to him that _he_ was supposed to be the one calling the shots. "Why?"

Lister grinned, working his trousers off with one hand. The bastard things wouldn't come off fast enough, and he grunted with the effort. "More..."

Well, if it turned Lister on... Rimmer gamely licked at his hand more, watching Lister getting visibly more excited from watching him.

Yes, just a little more. A little more... Lister looked on until he was satisfied, thrilling at the sensation he knew would follow for Rimmer. He couldn't feel Lister's tongue, but at least this was something like it, if not the best of substitutes. "There ya go... Now switch hands..."

Ah. Rimmer set his mouth and switched hands, almost with flair. "Like this?" His voice was all wrong. Hoarse, not firm and in control.

"Yes..." Lister said, choking, almost feeling the touch himself.

Rimmer started to stroke, boldly. The boldness melted as he felt ecstasy flood him. He was enjoying this far too much. "You want this?" Rimmer almost choked, precome dribbling from his cock.

Lister pulled down his underpants, slowly, and grabbed his own prominent erection. "Smeg yes; you keep asking! _Smeg_ yes!" His voice broke. His own touch, poor second choice though it was, sent thrills through him even before he'd moved his hand at all, and then he saw Rimmer staring. The man's eyes seemed fixed on Lister's hand where it gripped his erection, slipping a little from the wetness of the pre-come as he spread it, foreskin withdrawing on its own, as eager as the spectators watching it. "Do _you_ want this?" He pumped himself slowly, wondering how long he could keep that intolerable snail's pace up.

"I... smeg..." Rimmer stared at Lister's erection, pumping himself hard. He did, smeg, far, far too much; he wanted that fake reality back so he could be licked, sucked, smeg, even penetrated, but no, in that fake reality, they had been _brothers_ \- and even though he knew that, he had still, on that long walk down to the car, stared at Sebastian's... Lister's... rear, and thought about grabbing him and feeling him, disguising it disingenuously as a brotherly hug, but god, no, it was just like lusting after Frank, or John, or god help him, even _Howard_ , and Rimmer could feel his erection wilting in his hand as he pumped at it gamely, panting.

He hardly knew what he was doing anymore, but it didn't matter, Lister felt more than thought, as he pumped himself harder, still licking at the projection of Rimmer's erection. This was need, pure need, so long denied. He could deny it no longer, even if it was only this, no real connection; well dammit, he would _force_ a connection, even if it meant changing the laws of physics!

"Want... I... L... gah!" Rimmer shrieked in frustration, dropping his no-longer-erect cock to slap limply against his thigh. He charged for the door. No, no, _no_ , this was all utterly smegged.

With a short, sharp breath, Lister lost his balance, falling forward, grasping at a body that was no longer there, and would not have held him up had it still been. He hit the floor with a thud, his penis throbbing and angrily demanding what the hell was going on. He had no answer for it.

Goddam smegging door; if Rimmer were alive, he could just touch the Door Open switch, but no, he had to stand there while the door sensed his presence and opened automatically. He tried to re-form his clothes while he waited, but could only make scraps of garish cloth; he settled for a robe, his legs twitching. He dashed out of the door as soon as it was fully open.

Holding himself up with one hand, Lister swerved his head in Rimmer's direction, but the hologram was no longer there. "Rimmer!" he shouted desperately. He swore at the clothes bunched around his ankles and his definitely not-subsided erection, which was throbbing and hurting. Forcing himself haphazardly into some semblance of order, he stumbled to his feet and rushed after the crazy hologram.

Rimmer ran to the next set of cheap, cramped quarters, just down the hall. The door could not open quickly enough, and he jittered his legs as it did. _Away_ , his mind said, dumbly; _get away!_ Rimmer ran into the room and called for the door to lock, in an unsteady voice. He stood in the middle of the room, holding the robe around himself.

Lister dashed over as the door slid shut, banging on it with his fist, and swearing when all it got him was a bunch of sore knuckles. He kept banging anyway. "Rimmer!" he yelled, angry, worried. This didn't make any sense. He'd thought there was something there, finally, some connection... Hadn't there been? Had Lister forced something on that Rimmer wasn't ready for? Had he hurt him? Please, not that. Not now. "Arn... Man..."

Rimmer sat on the bunk, then grimaced as it showed no sign that someone was sitting on it. Yes, he could be upset that he was incorporeal and could not make a bunk respond to his presence. It was much better than trying to sort his way through the knot of insanity he had just experienced, with the fundamental _wrongness_ of lust for Lister mixing with the fundamental _wrongness_ of redneck brother-humping William's lust for cool, calm, suave Sebastian, and why had he let lust get at all mixed up in the perfectly healthy mix of condescension and disgust that he had always felt for Lister?

Damned bunk. Damned, smegging, worthless, pointless, grotty prick of a bunk.

With a final, half-hearted, painful slam of his fist, Lister slumped against the door, letting himself slide down it. "What the hell?" He didn't understand. What had been wrong? What had been missing? Groin, fist and now, more and more, head hurting, Lister sat there, thinking. He sat there all the way until Kryten came over with a deadpan look to ask him, in forcedly calm tones, whether he was absolutely _certain_ where he'd parked the ship?


	4. Chapter 4

The bed was hard, and the blankets were rough and scratchy. Hard! Scratchy! Rimmer wondered how he had ever gone on without those sensations. Then he wondered how he was supposed to go on _with_ them, as they inundated his brain, driving out all other thought. Smeg, he could hardly hear over the cacophony of sensation!

He sat on the edge of the bed, nude, his overstartched pajamas in his lap. His buttocks thought it was very important for him to know that the bed was hard and scratchy, and they continually sent very detailed messages to his brain about it. This drive was nothing like the numb soft-light drive, but Rimmer could not tell if he had been soft-light for so long that normal human sensation felt overdone in its intensity, or if it truly were unusually sensitive. Either way, smegging hell, would he ever get used to it? He shifted his hands, and the pajamas scraping over his crotch sent needles down the back of his spine. He yelped and tossed the pajamas on the bed. Smeg this hard-light drive to Andromeda and back! He had spent years pining for corporeality, and now that he had it, he could not stand it.

Rimmer set his jaw. He was going to put on his smegging pajamas, and he was going to go to sleep. He was smegged if he was going to let that paunchy Spandex nutter ruin his smegging evening. He bit his lip and pulled the pajama bottoms on, then fell on the bed, moaning. Fabric sliding up his legs! The scrape of stiff cloth on his thighs, his waist, his buttocks! Rimmer tried to lie still, letting his body get used to the sensation of _wearing startched pajamas_. Wrinkles, cuffs, the intolerable sense of a _button_ at the waist - and no, no, space help him, a fold had formed in the crease of his arse. He flopped onto his stomach to straighten it out, then moaned in earnest as his cock slapped the mattress and sprang to attention. He was erect, but not in the least bit horny, aggravated as he was at the excess of sensation. Too much! He groaned as he grabbed at the headboard, gripping it between his teeth with a whimper. _Lie still_ , he told himself, _lie still_. He would get used to this. He _would_.

Rimmer lay still for the rest of the night, cursing the part of himself that wanted to be soft-light again.

 

Rimmer's light bee lay on the floor, a small, lifeless hunk of metal. Lister watched it with some apprehension. His mind was a mass of confusion, and that bothered him. A lot. Lister very rarely fretted about anything. The way he figured, things happened. Some were good, some were bad, and you cherished the former and gritted your teeth through the latter. Simple. But this now... He eyed the bee, running his fingers through his hair. This was not simple.

There had been no time, on that nut-job's station, for them to have any kind of time to themselves. The rooms had been locked, and in the morning there had been just barely time enough for breakfast before the escaping and that. All in all, then, this would the first time he would be alone and face to face with Rimmer in his new... body. Now there was a word. Lister walked towards the bee, then stopped when he realized he had no idea what he was supposed to do when he got to it. Well, he was going to turn it on, wasn't he? Surely that was a simple enough task? He took a few more steps, before stopping again. Those few feet seemed an awfully long distance, all of a sudden. Just turn it on, he thought, say hi. Hi. How ya doing? How's that new, solid _body_ working out for ya? He closed his eyes and concentrated. It felt somehow important to do this _right_. Finally, he nodded, walked briskly forwards, picked the bee up, poked around for the button he knew would be there, pressed it, then threw the orb up into the air and stepped back. Then he started breathing again, his smoke-abused lungs offering wheezes of thanks.

Rimmer re-formed. The time spent with his projection switched off had been a good break from the excess of sensation he had experienced since acquiring his hard-light drive, but the tradeoff had been his utter inability to _do_ anything. Including keeping himself from lying helplessly in the sty that Lister laughingly referred to as the floor of his room. "For smeg's sake!"

It took Lister a while to catch on to Rimmer's irritation, taken up as he was with the task of simply looking at the man. The blue uniform, that subtle signifier that something was changed, something was _other_. Changed into something wonderful, he thought, as Rimmer's words finally penetrated. "What?" he asked, in sudden confusion.

"If I had to lie around on that pile of trash you call a floor for one more minute..." Rimmer sighed. Yes, he was on again, and he told himself, firmly, not to smegging _touch_ anything. Take it easy. Don't overload on sensation again. "Blasted mechanoid."

"You could sense that?" Lister asked, astonished. He didn't know what to do with his hands.

Rimmer sniffed "I can sense it from my own room!" He looked around. "Where _is_ that bogbot?"

"Gone off to clean something, I expect." Lister tried to catch Rimmer's eye, moving into his field of vision.

Rimmer folded his arms and shook his head, fidgeting. Lister loved to touch. Hugs and slaps on the arms for his friends, flicks behind the ear or tugs of hair for his not-friends, including one Arnold Judas Rimmer. Said A. J. R. was certain that he would jump out of his skin or implode if he were actually touched by a human being, or even by Lister. Not until he got used to the blasted hard-light drive!

Lister gave a wide grin, pushing the unfamiliar nervousness aside. Why did he always get like this with someone he really cared about? He could flirt his way out of a fully automated holding cell, and had, on several occasions, but once actual feelings were involved he was as useless as a mechanoid in a brothel. "Hey. You know..." he began, as softly and warmly as he could manage.

"I know more than enough," Rimmer snapped, interrupting.

Swallowing, Lister looked away for a moment, then stepped a little bit closer. So he was nervous too. Stood to reason, that; Rimmer was _always_ nervous. Lister shouldn't let that get to him. "Now that... er..." Oh, this was no use, and he just couldn't hold back any longer! Maybe actions would get through where words would not, Lister hoped, reaching out with one hand, hesitantly. It brushed against Rimmer's arm, just at the edge, as though he was still soft-light, and you had to be careful not to break through his edges. Force of habit, Lister mused, as his fingers fell just short of caressing the padded jacket-arm.

Rimmer looked at the hand. His clothes were part of his hologrammatic projection, and retained some sense of feeling. Lister's hand sent shivers up his spine. "What?" he asked sharply, jerking back slightly.

Lister looked up, almost pleadingly. "Well, that's what you were fretting over, wasn't it?" It had taken Lister far too long to figure out what had set Rimmer off, the last time they'd... Well, last time. Once he had realized though, he'd felt like an idiot. The man couldn't touch; couldn't _really_ touch! And though Lister couldn't touch him either back then, it had to have been all the worse for Rimmer. Lister, after all, could get his share of intimacy from Cat, or even smegging Kryten if he needed a hug or just to touch another being. Rimmer hadn't been able to do that, not ever, and the sex-that-really-wasn't must have driven that fact home in a particularly cruel way. And Lister had just sat there like an idiot, asking why! No wonder Rimmer hadn't wanted to talk about it since. But now! They were OK now. It would be all right. They could... They could...

"What I was _what_?" Smeg, Lister should know that he fretted over _everything_ , and certainly being stuck on Lister's smeggy floor qualified for a well-justified fret or two. But what did all of that puppy-dog-eye and arm-stroking business that Lister was giving him have to do with it?

The arm was so tense. It was as though the uniform itself was resisting Lister's touch, as tiny sparks of static tickled his fingers away as they ran up and down it. 'Don't touch' they seemed to say, and Lister, resignedly, gave up, his arms falling limply to his sides. He looked away. "You know. When we... you..." Made love? No. Smegging hell, no. But anything else sounded so crude right now. Lister bit his lip, settling for "ran away."

Rimmer's lip twisted. Oh, smeg. Oh, smegging grotting hell. _That_. Rimmer had been trying hard, harder than he had ever procrastinated from studying - and that was smegging hard, indeed - to forget all about _that_. The time he had gotten turned on from watching Lister wank, that time he wondered just how much of a smegging pervert he was. And Lister had to go remind him of it all. Bastard.

"But that's all right now, we can touch!" Lister said, quickly. "Yeah?" he added, question-marks written all over his face in a pattern of blush. This didn't feel right. Well, maybe it was still nerves.

"What _are_ you blathering about?" Rimmer said, weakly, backing up slowly. No, no, that invited an explanation. "Look, never mind," he said, quickly. _Nonononono!_ his brain was shrieking. _Not physical contact, not now. You think you can take it, Arnie? You can't even take smegging pajamas!_ He turned to the door, wondering if he could bear to touch the Door Open contact.

Lister's face fell. "Rimmer, man..." He bit his lip. There was no way Rimmer didn't remember. This was a man who kept careful track of how many sheets - not rolls - of toilet paper they went through, and kept a detailed chart tracking weekly and monthly usage. No way in smegging hell did he not remember something like this. No, he was just running away again, like he ran away from everything that stayed just a fraction from his regular goited routine. But this was not the time to pull and Arnold Rimmer special, Lister fumed. Taking advantage of Rimmer's hesitation, Lister slipped in front of him, blocking his precious escape-route.

"We should... find that... mechanoid. He's probably giving the computer systems a good scrubbing," Rimmer told the door. No, not the Door Open contact. Too many variables, there. He put his hands on his hips, shivering at how just _that_ felt.

"Look, don't be like this! Not now, yeah?" There was desperation in Lister's voice, because he felt more or less made up entirely of desperation now. _So_ many times he'd wanted to touch Rimmer - to slap his smug head, trip those overly-polished boots so he'd fall on his condescendingly flaring nostrils, pull his hair when he made fun of Lister's, pull him close those times death just got to him and tell him to get a smegging grip, and lately... Yeah, trust Rimmer to run away from the one thing he had dreamed about for ages, that had kept him going. Well, Lister wouldn't stand for it.

"Like _what_?" Rimmer barked, again at the door. "Like a halfway normal human being? There is a dearth of them about, you may notice!"

"Please! Let's just _talk_!"

Rimmer turned back. No, he could not open that smegging door. "Talk about what?" he asked, warily, arching his eyebrow.

"Rimmer..." Lister hesitated, "Arn... are you gonna pretend like it didn't happen?" Something had hit him pretty hard that last time. Maybe Lister was missing something important. He wanted this to be right. _Needed_ this to be right. "What's wrong?"

"Like _what_ didn't happen? Legion? Hard-light? Not denied in the least, miladdio!" And Lister truly had no idea of what it was like for him, after that?

And there it was, written plainly on Rimmer's unmoving, uncaring, unfeeling face. David Lister, step right up and accept the Red Dwarf Idiot of the fecking Milennium Award! Rimmer hadn't despaired at not being able to touch. He'd despaired at the thought of one day - maybe - being able to touch _Lister_! And now that day of horror had truly come. Grimness seeped into Lister's face, and he let it set into a mask; an armor. In a voice that came out almost like a growl, he said, "Right. So that's how you want it, then?" With just a little more effort, his eyes could be laser beams, he was sure. Give him five minutes more alone in a room with this man, and he'd make optometry fucking history.

"That's how it is. It's not like _I_ have a choice." Rimmer's voice sounded pathetically weak, even to him. No, let's make Rimsy a hologram, so he spends years not feeling anything. Then let's grab his bee without so much as an if-I-may or by-your-leave, and make him hard-light, and while he's still reeling from that, oh, yes, why doesn't Lister stand there with smegging invitation in his eyes and get all pissy when a man who can't bear to touch a smegging switch yet doesn't want to canoodle? Rimmer shivered.

Lister moved closer, raging, getting into Rimmer's face, making sure they were touching; stomach, chest, thighs, arms just about bumping one another. He could felt Rimmer shiver; in disgust no doubt. Good. Let the twonk suffer. He breathed on Rimmer's skin, anger radiating, and in a dark voice that almost scared him, he said, "Fine."

Rimmer shuddered at Lister's touch. _Cotton jumpsuit. Leather jacket with exposed stitching, hard-edged and rough. Smoky, stale-lager breath._ His body would not smegging _shut up!_ "Yes..." he croaked.

In that same dark voice, and you could barely even notice it cracking at points, Lister growled, "You just make sure you stay the smegging hell away from me, yeah? I _don't_ want you _touching_ me _ever_ again!" Lister shouted the last into Rimmer's face, grabbing him hard by the waist, whimpering internally at the sensation so long denied, all of his senses, not to mention his libido, screaming at him not to let go, but he did, he had to. Then he looked down, and realized his hands hadn't actually obeyed his command, let go again, exhaled noisily, and stormed off. Smegging bastard. Smegging goited lovely gorgeous fecking twoking goited hateful _cheating_ fecking _bastard!_

The deer-in-headlights paralysis finally passed, as Lister let go and left. Rimmer took a deep breath. His body was quiet, at last, not screaming at him about the _rough cloth_ and _hard belt_ and _warm, soft hands_ that were Lister. He sat on a bunk. That much was better, at least; his drive did not yell at him about every variation in the bunk's surface. Perhaps he was finally getting used to it.

Space-smegged goit. Getting all smegging pissy about not being able to smegging fondle his smegging hard-light self! Smeg the twit to Callisto and back. Oh, and was it not so lovely that he had _grabbed_ Rimmer while telling him not to touch his holy Listerness? Yes, that was about as much sense as Lister ever made.

But after all, wasn't that what Rimmer wanted? Lister to leave him well enough alone? Yes, all of that - oddness before had just been a failed experiment, an attempt to wield power over Lister. No, this was exactly the way Arnold Rimmer wanted it to be - Lister leaving him _alone_ , like he had never done in life. One small victory for the forces of order and decency. Yes, well done, Rimsy.

Rimmer's face set, and he walked off to find that mechanoid and give him a jolly good talking-to.


	5. Chapter 5

The corridor was pleasingly quiet. Rimmer lay on his back and wondered if he were dead. Well, deader than he had been before. He had always thought of the afterlife as being quiet and relaxing, and the place where he lay certainly qualified. After the blasts and explosions, the silence was very welcome. It was not a complete silence, though - some white noise played in the background. Noise that was almost like the hum of distant engines. He sat up, opening his eyes. Engines! That meant Starbug. But the destruction - girders falling, wires sparking, blasts opening cracks in the hull that sucked air out in a high-pitched whistle - all of that was gone. The corridor was grimy, but intact.

Rimmer pulled himself to his wobbly, unsteady feet. His rise was hampered by something strapped to his shoulder. A bazookoid, when he turned to look. What the smeg was he doing with a bazookoid? Wait, wasn't he down there to blast something? No, impossible, there was nothing there to blast - just a blank wall.

Screwing his eyes closed, Rimmer concentrated. His short-term memory was fuzzy and murky, like Lister's boxer shorts. Wasn't he down there for a reason? Didn't he have a plan? Yes, he had taken the bazookoid down to the time-drive in order to blast it, to prevent their future selves from being! With a near-audible *ping*, everything fell into place. He had not destroyed the drive in time. He had raised the bazookoid, cocked it - and the ship had exploded, shards of metal tearing through his hard-light flesh, his light bee shredding in the blast. Smegging Legion. Virtually indestructible, his arse.

Their future selves must have created one smegger of a paradox. The implications of this hit Rimmer with another near-audible *ping*. He ran for the cockpit.

 

In the cockpit, Lister lay dead. Fortunately, the effects of this did not overly bother him, given that he was unconscious. Of course, as his _sub_ conscious noted with some confusion, if he was _un_ conscious he couldn't very well be dead, now could he? Plus, if he was dead, there'd be no one to do this thinking, would there? It felt fairly certain on that point. Something about apples falling into bathtubs, or was it getting things mixed up? Reaching the conclusion it probably had very little helpful with which to contribute, Lister's subconscious mind gracefully yielded to its non-sub cousin, which brought with it a building, debilitating headache. And with the headache came... memories.

_"All right, then?" Slipping out of the kitchens to join Lister at his table, Selby plucked a badly made cigarette from behind one ear, and started fiddling with it. "You're in here late."_

_"Yeah, man; I'm avoiding Petersen." Lister turned the chili and onion sandwich the machine had reluctantly provided him with over in his hand. The brooding he was doing was taking the taste out of his lunch._

_"Really?" Selby broadened his grin. Lister wasn't entirely sure he liked that._

_"Yeah. He's been acting all strange since we got back from planet-leave on Callisto."_

_Selby nodded, still grinning like a maniac. "Yeah, I heard you guys spent the night. Fun, was it?"_

_Lister frowned. "That's the odd thing. I don't remember. Must have gotten completely off my face."_

_"You don't remember if it was fun? Was he that bad? Eh?" The sentence had trouble coming out, given that the mouth producing it was simultaneously trying to giggle._

_Not in the mood for jokes he did not understand, Lister shot him a glare. "What're you on about? I don't remember_ anything _. Like, anything at all, guy." He frowned, considering. "And Petersen, you know, he's giving me these_ looks _, like I should know something I don't. It's driving me up the wall."_

_Through his now frequent giggles, Selby spluttered; "Fair bet he remembers then, yeah? Innit? Right?" He jumped a little forwards with each word, leaning towards Lister like a developmentally challenged hyena._

_Lister threw his sandwich at him, his annoyance only growing when Selby just let it slid down his apron onto the floor. "Lay_ off _, man! What the smeg is wrong with you? Yer not making any sense!"_

_"Come on, lay off with the being coy. Everyone's talking about you and him."_

_Lister swallowed. This conversation was not going in a direction he was comfortable with. "Wha?"_

_"You and him, mate. Sharing a room!" Selby brushed a piece of onion off his arm, and poked Lister in the ribs. "So did ya get off or not?"_

_"What?" Lister yelled in outrage. That was... that was... Well, that was true, he realized as his spine turned slowly to ice._

_Oblivious, Selby droned on. "Naaah, mate; I'm just messing with ya. You and him, right? That'd be a laugh and a half." He winked._

_Bewildered, Lister nodded, thinking of the tattoo he'd discovered in the shower the day before yesterday. "Right. Too right."_

_"I mean, what's next then? You and Rimmer?"_

_Right, Lister thought, as the memories of that drunken night slowly seeped into his brain. Doing that with Rimmer? Smegging hell, no!_

_"He's so tall and skinny you'd need a ladder just to give 'im head, only you'd need to be careful he didn't faint from it. Not seen the light of day all too often, that man's tadger has, I'll bet."_

_"Hah, no." And yes, it was disgusting, wasn't it? But he would have said that about Petersen a week ago, but now? No, hang on, what was he saying... did that mean..._

_"I can just see it right now; you and 'im. No arguing who gets to be on top, right?"_

_"Shut up," Lister mumbled, trying to still his screaming mind._

_"You know, 'cause you've got the top bunk, geddit?"_

_"Yeah Selby, I get it, it's really funny, now shut up!"_

_"And... and he'd be ordering you around, wouldn't he? 'Lick my arse, Listy, I'm yer superior officer!"_

_Shut up, Lister willed, grabbing the edge of the table._

_"He's a nutzo freak that gimboid. Total smeg-out. Bet he likes dressing up, you know, like a girl or a hamster or sheep or something. Hey, you think he'd make you do that? Make y..."_

_And that's when Lister had hit him._

As the room seemed to come into sharper focus yet again, as though enhanced somehow by the ancient conversation now so clear in his mind, Lister lifted his head slowly. That is to say, he tried to; every breath was a struggle. A voice sounded behind him as he tried to incorporate the new-found information into his crumbling view of the world. "Dear me! Everyone seems... much less dead." It could only be Kryten.

Lister blinked. "Speak fer yerself!" he groaned. The puzzle-piece that was his long-lost memory fit all too well, he found, once you turned it the right way round.

Kryten started to tap intently at his console. He frowned as his display lit with figures, illuminating his pale face with a blue glow. Next to him, Cat sniffed, then looked down at himself in dismay. "What the hell happened to my suit?"

Kryten gave a polite cough. "Sirs - I think you might find this interesting."

Craning his head over with something less than enthusiasm, Lister examined the garment in question. "There's nothing wrong with your suit, man." He turned to Kryten, every movement enhancing the pounding in his brain-pan. "What?"

"Nothing wrong??" Cat yowled. He presented his sleeve, holding it up to the harsh console lights with a breaking heart. " _Look_ at this crease!" He took out a small, portable iron, and started to work at the sleeve, licking it as he went along to provide moisture, couture instincts taking over.

"The chronometer is showing the time to be just _before_ we entered the reality minefield!" Kryten said, in an awed voice.

"Eh?" This was too much for Lister's much-abused mind to take in for one sitting. He turned as Rimmer came pounding into the cockpit, panting. "We're not... we're... less dead!" Rimmer cried. It was, he supposed, all relative.

A sinking feeling hit the Cat straight in his guts, and he turned slowly, sniffing. Too-tight faux-velour trousers stuck into last week's synthetic leather boots, the finish ruined from obsessive polishing; padded too-tight-in-the-neck nyliester jacket with imitation-gold buttons - yes. This was the walking fashion nightmare himself. "Unfortunately," he added, turning back to his ironing.

"I believe a paradox has occurred," Kryten said, nodding at his diagnosis in a satisfied manner.

Lister clutched at his head. "I... remember things." An understatement. He could still feel the taste of onion lingering in his mouth, the hard, cheap plastic of the break-room chair, the sharp, bitter smell of bad coffee. He sniffed the air experimentally before noticing, as though for the first time, that there were other people in the room, and leaned back in his chair with something akin to embarrassment. He needed to think this through.

"Yes... I believe our other selves killed us." Kryten stood and trotted out to the midsection, pushing Rimmer aside. Rimmer, oddly enough, felt too elated by the disappearance of their future selves to care about either Cat's deliberate slight or Kryten's offhand one. Not even when Kryten pushed past him again, carrying an ibuprofen tablet and a glass of water on a small tray, which he inclined towards Lister.

With a look of deep contemplation, Lister took the tablet and the water. He absentmindedly swallowed the former with the help of the latter, concentrating on doing it that way, and not the other way around. "Thanks."

Rimmer's mind would not let go of their future selves. Those smegging, grotty, immoral, hedonistic arseholes. "They killed us? We seem to be here." Of course, if they had killed their past selves, there would have been no them to have become their future selves and kill them, which meant they would have lived, which meant, in the end, they would still have been there in the future to come back and kill their past selves in the present, right? Rimmer's bee began to ache.

"Yes, sir." Kryten spoke with condescending precision, as if to a child. "A paradox. Our future selves cannot kill us without vast repercussions."

"Gimme that!" Cat barked to a vacantly staring Lister. Grabbing the glass of water, he sprinkled some on his sleeve, and started to iron again with renewed fervor.

"So... they killed themselves, so they could not kill us, so we're alive again." Rimmer paused. And if they were alive again, but had not come back again to kill themselves again, was it because they had turned - would turn - out differently? Did they have a choice?

"Precisely, sir." Kryten nodded.

"And then they ruined my suit!" Cat gave up on his ironing with a deep sigh. Those fat, bald bastards!

Kryten glanced at Cat's suit. "All in all, a better outcome than we had any right to expect!"

Cat shook his head, taking off his jacket and folding it neatly over the back of his seat. The others just had no sense of _perspective!_ Did they think high thread-count velveteen was easy to come by in deep space?

Rimmer nodded, leaning against the cockpit's hatchway. "Yes." They had a choice beyond dead or smeg, did they? It was a far better outcome than any of them deserved. Lister cast a furtive glance at him. The last man alive hardly looked it; all pasty and haggard. The whites of his eyes were more like reds. Rimmer frowned. "You look like death... er." He shut up.

Kryten looked at Lister with concern. "You should have a lie-down! Death is terribly exhausting."

The edges of Lister's mouth twitched a little. "Maybe I should." He caught Rimmer's eye and smiled softly, watching the vulture grimace that passed for a smile tug at Rimmer's face. Selby's words prodded at his mind, but somehow, the years had changed their impact.

Cat flopped back in his chair with disgust. "Go on. I'll take this shift. Day's ruined anyway."

Kryten's eyes widened. "Oh, my stars! I haven't started on that pile of laundry! And that trip backwards in time might have doubled it!" He pushed past Rimmer and trotted through the midsection in mild panic.

Unsteady, shaking, Lister tried to get up. The painkiller was starting to kick in. Still, it could do little for the chaos in his mind that seemed to run down his body and translate into tremors as he stumbled to his feet. Grabbing Rimmer's arm when he felt his legs give up was pure reflex; the unfamiliar texture of a uniformed arm he'd hardly ever touched made him swallow and look slowly towards the hologram. "Er..." Lister removed his hand quickly, but Rimmer was merely looking at him, that vulture leer still on his face. Lister echoed it with a careful smile of his own, idly wondering what was going on between them. He sure as smeg had no idea. "I'm gonna go.."

Well, what the smeg. Rimmer had rather a lot on his simulated mind. Maybe Lister could help. Of course, if he were in a state where Lister would be a help, he was in a bad state indeed. Smeg. He grabbed Lister's arm. "With your two left feet, you'd be fortunate to make it to the midsection intact..."

"You may be right, you know." Lister gave a short laugh. It felt friendly. He felt friendly. Nice change, that.

"I _may_?" Rimmer snorted, helping him along.

Lister looked at the hand on his arm. There was some significance to it that wasn't entirely clear to him, but it felt good. As the pain in head dissolved, it felt better and better. Rubbing his forehead, almost physically sensing thoughts and memories slot into place underneath the tight skin of his brow, Lister let Rimmer help him.

Rimmer paid almost no attention to Lister, other than the hand he kept unhelpfully on the man's arm. His mind was circling unproductively, staying a constant distance from the knotty paradox, prodding at it warily. "I'm a git, aren't I," he muttered.

The idea wasn't new to Lister, but the source certainly was. Taken off guard, he made a surprised sound that was almost a giggle. "Where did that come from?"

"Well, between Rimmerworld and my future self, I can't really help noticing." Rimmer paused. "A thread."

Lister shrugged, as best he could. "Yer you."

"Unfortunately." Rimmer couldn't keep the bitterness out of his voice. Ugly, fat, stupid, tasteless, heartless git in yellow. And it was _Lister_ who drove him out. Rimmer had just huddled in the background, seeing far too much of himself in that bastard's eyes. He was that man. He really _was_ that man.

Lister's brow furrowed. Self-insight? From Arnold Judas Rimmer? He looked at the man askance. Granted, Rimmer had never liked himself much, but there seemed to be an edge to his self-loathing this time, as though it was tinged by some deeper knowledge. "What's eating you now? I mean... Why now?"

"Well..." Rimmer frowned. "I died, didn't I? Again, that is. And you did." His fault, in some ways, both of them. He hated guilt. The smallest bit of it would eat at him and turn his thoughts away from anything vaguely productive they might have accidentally latched onto. And their death was a huge steaming pile of guilt. He had done it! It had been smegging _him_ on that monitor, sneering at his own past self! "This isn't really making a terribly massive amount of sense," Rimmer muttered.

"Yeah... I did die," There was, among the myriad memories now fresh in his mind, one that must have been death. There had been a feeling of pressure near his gut, followed by a strange sense of distance, and then _nothing_ , in a very definite sense of the word. That fit what he'd always believed - that there was no afterlife - and yet it was nothing short of odd to _remember_ your own death. It made him feel... Hell, it made him feel alive! He burst into sudden laughter, relaxing into a grin, as he found himself settling into a strange sort of peace. "It might not make any sense, but leastways we're alive!"

"Well, you are."

Lister giggled. "You know what I mean." He leaned against Rimmer, as though trying it on for size. They'd both died now, though Rimmer was still reigning ship's champion. Two dead men leaning against one another. That shouldn't feel as good and right as this, should it?

Rimmer shrugged. "Is it inevitable?"

"What?"

"That I wind up like such... a jackarse?" He paused. Wait, what was he asking? He was one already. Better dead than smeg? He was both.

Catching his free hand on the corridor wall, Lister turned himself around to catch Rimmer's eye. "Yer not..." He paused, changing his mind. "Yer not _just_ a jackarse, Rimmer. And yer not _just_ a smeghead, either. People have different sides, ya know. Not all good, not all bad." Rimmer looked at his own backside, and Lister shook his head in amusement. The man could be surprisingly funny at times. He pushed back, finding he could stand quite well on his own.

"It's never going to be like it was, though, is it? Now that I _know_... what I'll be, if I do." Rimmer let go of Lister. But could he? Given his tendency to smeg things up, he would probably run right into his future self while trying to run away from him.

There had been warmth in the almost-embrace of Rimmer's arm, and Lister found he was a little cold for the loss of it. "I like to think it won't be, no."

"What do you like to think it will be?" Rimmer asked, puzzled at Lister's apparent chipperness. Well, hell, maybe he was just happy he wasn't in a jar.

Come death or paradox, it was good to know that some things never changed. Rimmer's total and utter lack of optimism and self-esteem that wasn't based on fake bravado was certainly one of them. Lister smiled a half-smile. "Whatever we chose it to be. Otherwise, what good is living at all, yeah?"

"So to speak." Rimmer looked at Lister's room door, just a few steps away. He shivered, for no reason he could put his finger on. And there was Lister, studying him, a sort of distant look on his face. Rimmer was far away from his zone of comfort, and running away from it at speed.

"You've got to..." Rimmer looked so utterly helpless, standing there. You'd think he'd been the one that had needed support. Perhaps he did. Just of a different kind. "...got to be able to change if you want to; grab what chances you have at being happy; being good."

Rimmer nodded. Happy and good were not terms he was familiar with. Proper and decent were, but those were out of the smegging window these days. And how much had the pursuit of those gotten him, anyway? "Well."

Oh, to hell with this. It was all well and good to dispense advice, Lister thought, but what good was he if he didn't follow it himself? There Rimmer was, just standing there. All it would take was two little steps to bring Lister close enough to touch him. Just two little steps, so why did they take so long? He wet his lips with some hesitation, not sure, now he was here, how to proceed.

Rimmer looked at Lister where he stood so claustrophobically close, almost bumping his chest against Rimmer. Smegging hell. After all of this, Lister still had just one thing on his mind? One-track mind. One-smegging-track mind. Rimmer found that his hand was on Lister's cheek, and he hurriedly dropped it, as he felt Lister start at the touch. A sound midway between a sigh and a whimper escaped the man, and his mouth... his mouth fell open. Rimmer's mind seemed to think it was very important to note this fact, and he swatted at it. Smeg knew what this was, but Lister had always made it clear what he really wanted. "Well, you have to chase your own dream, miladdio," Rimmer mumbled. Kochanski and Fiji and horses and babies. Hell, it was more sensible than his own dream of being an officer. A. J. Smeghead an officer? He must have been mad.

Stuck on the threshold to something he still was not entirely sure he even wanted to know what was, Lister stared, standing there, breathing. His mouth was open, at it tended to be when he forgot about it, and he probably looked like a moping idiot. Right. Time to do something about that. Reaching out with his hand was as easy as breathing really, so why was he shaking as though he was afraid it would catch fire?

Rimmer frowned. "Look!" he barked. Lister jumped, his hand dropping like a rock. If he were the smeghead jackarse of the universe, what did that say about the man who was, as far as Rimmer could tell, attempting to sleep with him? "I have insulted you, sniped at you, and left you to die a time or two. I have been about as total a smeghead - fully intentionally! - as it is possible to be to you. And you're just going to... forget that? Pretend it didn't happen? You're not a... teenage girl! Why don't you bloody well stand up for yourself?" Rimmer paused, panting, glaring at that little gerbily optimistic smegger.

Lister started, incredulous. "Of course not! Didn't you hear a word I said?" Anger swelled as though in response to Rimmer's idiotic indignation. How could Lister ever do right by him if Rimmer would not _let_ him! "Yer _not_ just a smeghead, smeghead! Yer a stupid, neurotic, insecure wreck of a shell protecting something wonderful inside, and I'm fecking tired of seeing it covered up!" The words drove him closer, and he stretched himself to his full height and beyond, until Rimmer was eye-to-irate-brown-eye with him; hard-light teeth chewing ditto lips on a backwards-slumping body. "Well?" It was more of a growl than a means of punctuation.

Rimmer licked his lips, trying to think of some rebuttal. He could not. He was so far outside of his area of expertise that he would need a smegging star-drive to get to the point of 'well out of sight.' "And what's the grand Lister excavation plan?" he asked, weakly.

And there was victory, so close he could almost smell its sweet scent. Lister grinned evilly, relishing it. "Oh, I have a few ideas..." On some sort of delirious high, he snaked both arms around Rimmer's waist, so dexterously as to hardly be noticed until they were there. And when they were, pulling Rimmer even closer to him was as simple as breathing.

_Sex_ , Rimmer's brain informed him. _Sex with Lister. Currybreath. Nail-chewer. Deodorant-challenged. Rescuer._ His hands did not know what to do. They would not push Lister away. They wanted to touch his shoulders, his back, his buttocks; they finally settled on the small of his back, grasping stiff, filthy jumpsuit.

"I'm touching you," Lister said, quietly.

"Yes," Rimmer squeaked. "I noticed." He had not the slightest idea what to do about it.

It was odd. Touch, allowed now, as good as invited, was not the euphoric experience Lister might have expected. Instead, it felt like something he'd done every day of his life, like he was merely caressing an extension of himself. Somehow, though, that was even better. Lister puffed out a quick breath that was almost a laugh, then brushed his lower lip against Rimmer's chin. He stood there as Rimmer closed his eyes, just holding the hologram tightly. Home. That was what this felt like. Home.

Rimmer shivered. Kissing. Another man kissing him. Lister. _Sebastian_. Brain in a jar.

Lister looked up. Rimmer's eyes were screwed shut, and he was pale - pale even for someone who had spent their life exclusively under artificial sunlight. Lister smiled quickly; the movement of his lips against Rimmer's skin made the hologram shiver even more. That was encouraging, as if Lister needed any of that. He brushed his lips upwards very slowly until they were feathering Rimmer's, waiting for the violent reaction that was sure to follow. This was _Rimmer_ ; it was never this easy to win him over.

Kissing Lister. On the lips. The logical progression would be for their mouths to open, wouldn't it, and tongues to swap places? His own tongue in Lister's mouth, and who knows what had been there before? In his own mouth, he would have Lister's long, prehensile, slithering, warm tongue...

Somewhere in the light bee's delicate circuits, their traces as complex as the pathways of a human brain, a nanoscopic relay snapped. Rimmer's hands clenched, and his consciousness took a quick breather.


	6. Chapter 6

Shocked to suddenly be holding dead weight, Lister stumbled under the surprisingly dense mass of unconscious hard-light hologram. Thankfully, he had already been holding Rimmer tightly enough to keep from being overbalanced, but this didn't mean he found it any easier to know how to react. A quick laugh-like sound escaped him, as he imagined the tableaux the two of them must have made; the absurdity of it all. Oh well, when you were the last human being alive and three million and some years out in space, there were very few things that could make the situation more bizarre than it already was. With some determination, he dragged Rimmer, the hologram's head flopping on his shoulder, to the nearest quarters. That they happened to be his own - well, that was happy chance, now, wasn't it? Struggling through the door, he couldn't help but smile a little. Fainting after a kiss? He hadn't known he was _that_ good!

Rimmer's dead weight was considerable. Lister struggled with it to get the limp body to the door and hit the Door Open switch with his elbow. Once safely inside, he dropped Rimmer on the nearest bunk, and hunched down beside it. There. That had been considerably easier than trying to talk the man into his bed, at any rate.

Rimmer's highly primitive repair systems had finally located the proper breaker, and flipped it back to On. Rimmer jerked upright. "Yes, mother!?" he yelped. He was not quite sure where he was supposed to be, but he must be supposed to be somewhere else, mustn't he, or why else would she have prodded him awake like that? But it wasn't his room - god, had he fallen asleep in Howard's bed again? No, Howard would never decorate his room with posters of naked women... He looked around, blinking.

Lister smiled. "Hi."

Rimmer pointed a trembling finger at the man in front of him. He was very familiar. "You're Lister. Dave Lister."

"Yes," Lister replied, patiently.

Those lips looked terribly familiar, too. "And you were... kissing me."

Lister was fully determined to remain patient. There was no telling how long this could take. "Yes. Was rather enjoying it too, until ye passed out."

"Oh!" Rimmer's memories fell into their proper places. He was not sure it was such a good idea. "Right." He looked around. "So."

"So, are ye gonna pass out again?"

Rimmer fidgeted. That would be a way out, wouldn't it? Just say 'yes' and bolt. But smeg him, the feel of those lips on his... Rimmer shivered. "I don't actually know." He remembered something that Frank had laughingly said to Howard while elbowing him in the ribs. "I think the blood went... to the wrong head."

Only years of extensive poker-playing with some very devious friends allowed Lister to refrain from collapsing onto the bunk in laughter. All for the best, really, considering what _that_ might have done to Rimmer's fragile process of coming to terms with... whatever this was.

Rimmer watched Lister's lips quiver. Lips. Soft, full resilient lips. Well, was it fair to ask him to back away from lips like that? No matter who they were on? "There's only one.. definitive way to tell."

Lister let himself smile a little, hoping this wouldn't trigger a bout of giggles. "Yeah?"

Rimmer nodded. "If you're _that_ curious."

"Oh, you know me," Lister nearly purred, as the urge to laugh gave way to another, much stronger urge, "deadly curious, I am."

Deadly. "The very words," Rimmer muttered. Couldn't he have picked something a little bit more apropos to them - just having died? Rimmer for the second smegging time?

Lister put one arm on either side of Rimmer to support himself as he clambered into the bunk, suspending himself over the man like some ridiculous canopy. Rimmer watched him intently, and Lister's mouth twitched. What would happen if - when - he lowered himself down towards that smegging unreadable gaze? Anger? Tears? Hysterics? Other things far too exciting to consider? Whatever was in store, Lister _was_ dead curious, in every meaning of the word, and so hesitated no further. Descending, he sucked at Rimmer's lower lip, rather abruptly - but gently.

Rimmer panted and moaned slightly. Smegging hell, that felt far too good. His mouth fell open as he let Lister pull as much of the lip as he would. Lister carefully snaked out the tip of his tongue to caress along Rimmer's lower lip. Rimmer's mouth only gaped wider, and, as though fearing for what might fall in there on this crate, Lister released the lip, moving in to cover Rimmer's gaping mouth with his own. Rimmer groaned into Lister's mouth. He had been right - lips, then open mouths, then tongues, and unless he was very much mistaken, that was Lister's tongue rolling in, caressing his own tongue, tasting like cigarettes and stale beer. But regardless of that, he was erect, and only becoming more so the more that tongue wound around the inside of his mouth and the more those full lips rubbed against his own.

Feeling drunk - heady, even high - Lister cradled Rimmer's head in his hands, licking the inside of his mouth as he pressed their bodies together. There was a sweetness to all of this, brought on, perhaps, by years of confused, uncertain longing. Whatever it was, Lister wanted more of it; a constant supply. _Imaging making love to a woman!_ Smeg that. Imagine this!

Oh, smeg it all. So he would have sex with the space-bum. What, was he worried that his brothers or what had passed for his friends would make fun of him? But sex should involve hands as well as mouths, and his elbows were providing structural support to their upper bodies that he would be ill-advised to let go of. He pawed at Lister's sides.

Lister put one hand underneath Rimmer's head, slowly easing them both downwards until Rimmer was flat on the bunk. It felt good, lying on top of him like that; different from a woman, but that Rimmer was different from a woman should not come as a surprise to anyone. Hands fluttered around Lister's body. Had they belonged to anyone else, the poetically inclined might be moved to describe them as butterflies, but in this case... well, moths, perhaps. Lister gripped one of them and placed it on his buttock, where he felt it might be of some use.

Rimmer pawed at Lister's buttocks. Not bad. Resilient. Horrid cloth over the top, but underneath, it felt like there was something... worth fondling.

It was clumsy and awkward, but to Lister, the awkward groping felt far, far better than anything even an expertly programmed sex-droid could have done to him. A smile broke out across his face, forcing Lister to break the kiss. Unwilling to break contact, he started licking Rimmer's lips, squeezing one of Rimmer's buttock-fondling hands and grinding gently against his hip. If it what they were going to do was going to keep feeling this good, that grinding would not stay gentle for much longer, he feared.

Rimmer sucked at Lister's neck as he squeezed the man's buttock. Lister moaned, his, back arching slightly, an erection very evident even through the layers of smeggy cloth he wore. Worry began to build in Rimmer again. Yes, this fondling business was well and good. But Lister had an erection, and Rimmer was not certain how to handle another man's naughty bits. With women, it was straightforward enough; put his own bit in, and the rest worked out. But did Lister expect him to perform oral service? Smeg, he had never even had it done to himself; he had not the slightest idea how it went! Well, there was always the anal route, and he certainly liked a finger or two up there - but if that were the case, he certainly hoped memory was playing him false when it came to the size of Lister's erect penis. To distract from what he was certain was a ludicrous expression on his own face, he licked and nipped at Lister's chest, chewing the cloth on either side a bit.

Rimmer's chin, like the rest of his face, his body, was irresistibly inviting. Lister leaned down again to lick it, wanting to lick every part of the man in turn. He'd need some sort of chart to check them off, so as not to miss anything. There were some parts in particular he really did _not_ want to miss. His clothes needed to come off, he decided. That's what generally happened at this point, wasn't it? Making love, for Lister, was more of a mass of disjointed, ecstatic sensory impressions than a series of ordered events. He remembered sexual acts in feelings; touch, taste and scent - tricks and lessons learned and recalled as though by instinct. Things happened, felt good, kept feeling good, and then exploded in pleasure, and right now he could help this process along by working the top of his overalls off. This accomplished, he started to unbutton the top of his longjohns. As Rimmer removed his hands from Lister's buttocks to stroke what was exposed, Lister had to concentrate harder at his task, but he did not stop, he could not stop, until his buttons were undone all the way to his waist. He slipped out of his top and paused, panting.

Rimmer had pushed himself flat against the bunk to stroke at Lister's chest. When was the last time he had seen the man shirtless? Lister had always had a good layer of baby fat, and Rimmer had assumed that his recent penchant for baggy long johns and overalls was to conceal a growing gut. Instead, a hollow chest faced him. "Your aim is terrible," Rimmer muttered. "You've been missing your mouth with your food."

Lister frowned, in no place where he was able to decode Rimmer's words. "Whu?" He sat back, sliding his hands over Rimmer's chest. That needed licking too. He'd add it to his list, if he could manage to keep one in his head.

"You look like a stick." Those nipples - dark against his brown skin. They looked like liquorice treats, or panic buttons, or... Rimmer licked them.

What was Rimmer on about? Lister looked normal now, didn't he? Like someone that wouldn't be out of place in a romantic film. Was that some sort of jibe; some dig at the fact that he could still stand to lose a few... Rimmer's tongue hit his nipples, and Lister mouth, already open to attempt a reply, could only moan as he winced at the wet, hot touch.

Rimmer grimaced, spat out a hair that got caught in his teeth, then started to suck at Lister's chest again. All of those curries made Lister's sweat spicy.

The licking and sucking was damn distracting, but something in Lister felt moved, nonetheless, to protest. "Least not... fat... keep... telling me..." He stroked at Rimmer's torso, as though trying to count the abdominal muscles through his clothes. He'd thought Rimmer would be pleased to see him looking the way he did. Was it still not good enough?

"I have to make fun of you... for something. Since I'm a smeghead." Rimmer started to knead Lister's buttocks again.

"Yeah, smeghead, yeah," Lister panted. What were they talking about?

Well, there was no putting this off, and if he didn't attend to it, who knows where Lister might decide to stick it? Rimmer tentatively touched Lister's erection with his right hand, still kneading Lister's buttocks with his left.

The touch was unexpected, and all the more delicious for it. Lister cried out, closing his eyes as the cry turned into a faint, joyous laugh. Rimmer touching him. _Touching him._ Touching his... god yes!

Rimmer snatched his hand back with a frown. "Not that?" He didn't know the rules to this! Were they written down somewhere? The Space Corps Directives were very clear on subordinates following the instructions of superior officers during illicit unions, but they had nothing to suggest for when the superior officer had no smegging clue what he was supposed to be doing. Oh, certainly Space Corps Directive 87442 offered helpful hints on illicit copulation in general, but Rimmer had always been leery of pool cue chalk.

Lister grabbed Rimmer's hand and promptly snatched it back again, grinding up against it, hoping to give the git a goited clue. "Smeg yes, that!"

"Oh." Well, smeg, how was he supposed to know? Rimmer started stroking Lister gently through his jumpsuit. It was like a hand job, and certainly Rimmer had done that to himself enough to have an idea how to go about it.

Maybe he shouldn't have been so quick to laugh at Rimmer fainting, Lister mused, giving a breathless whine and moan. He was beginning to feel a little faint himself. He put his hands underneath Rimmer's undershirt, burrowing under it as he leaned into the touch on his groin. He breathed through his nose, bucking slightly into Rimmer's hand, pushing the undershirt up with both hands. The clasps on Rimmer's jacket popped open as he pushed the shirt all of the way up, exposing Rimmer's chest.

Rimmer leaned his head back and closed his eyes, still stroking Lister. It was generally agreed that Rimmer's body was not one meant for display - the precept instilled by his family and confirmed independently by many girls - and so he breathed whinily through his nose, leery of the reception it would get.

Lister's eyes lit up at sight of Rimmer's naked chest. There was something he had decided to do to it, wasn't there? Devour it? Maybe so; but _lick it_ ; hell yes! He leaned down with his tongue out, careful not to disrupt what was happening at his own groin level.

Well, Lister always did have odd taste. Rimmer shivered as Lister licked; it was a highly stimulating sensation. He clutched at Lister's erection as he pulled his other hand off of Lister's buttock to stroke himself through his trousers.

Rimmer's hand was moving. Looking down, Lister made a mock disapproving noise. He placed his own hand on Rimmer's, gently moving it, and licked his own lips. The thought of what he was about to do was frighteningly appealing.

Rimmer frowned. What, he wasn't allowed to get off, as part of this? Lister wanted his balls to match his uniform? Once Rimmer's hand was removed, Lister put his own hand there, very carefully, seeming to taking his time quite on purpose, and enjoying it, the bastard! Rimmer choked at the feel of Lister's hand on his cock. He knew a subset of places where that hand had been. He had _seen_ Lister scratch his own crotch and pick his teeth with it. Did Rimmer really want it on his cock? His cock certainly wanted it there, however, firming further at Lister's touch.

Those trousers had never left much to the imagination, as Lister well knew, having needed many long, cold showers followed by long, inevitable wanking sessions once he gave up and gave in. Now he shivered quite a lot as he felt Rimmer's erection through the trousers, tracing the contours of it with his fingers. Rimmer moaned. He made Rimmer moan. _He_ had! Lister licked at the chest again, then lower down, getting to edge of Rimmer's trousers and sticking his tongue underneath the join.

Rimmer shivered, bucking slightly. If this was going to be oral sex, he did not think he would be able to say no to it. Wait, why would he want to say no? He let go of Lister's erection as the man slid lower, and grabbed his hair instead. Wiry hair, tightly curled, catching under the edges of his nails.

Lister cupped Rimmer's erection, gripping it through the cloth, moaning and shivering as the hologram wrapped his legs around Lister's back. Lister traced a path with his tongue on top of Rimmer's trousers down to the hologram's erection, and licked it through the cloth. If he could lick his way through that shiny fabric, he gladly would! He grabbed Rimmer's buttocks, pulling upwards, pressing Rimmer's groin to his mouth.

Ah, that was doable. He was safely separated from Lister's mouth by his trousers. He bucked into Lister's mouth. "Smeg, that feels incredible," he gasped. "Where did you learn... to do that..."

Lister came up for air, laughing softly. "Bodies aren't all that different." They weren't, at that. You poked and prodded them, found out what made them twitch and shake and moan, and then you kept doing those thing over and over, until you were done. Anyone could do that. Though, from what his girlfriends had told him, far from everyone did.

Rimmer hiked himself up on his elbows. "Yes, they are!" he squeaked.

"Been wanting to do this... Smegging tight trousers..." Lister gasped, trying to pull that same item of clothing down.

Rimmer wiggled, loath to part with that layer of protection. But it was all part of his projection, wasn't it? It was not really any kind of actual barrier - just a trick of the mind. "Oh, smeg it..." He let them vanish.

"Yes..." Lister anticipated; then, as blue gave way to pale pinkish-orange skin and startched white underpants, he let out a deep, thrilling moan, which is a reaction he never thought he'd have to starched white underpants. "Nice..."

"Yes, I'm full of party tricks," Rimmer muttered, looking down at himself.

"Too much.... covering ya up..." Lister mumbled, licking at the one remaining garment. There was no taste, as the had been no taste when he'd licked the trousers. Taste was but one sense, though, and all his other ones were screaming "hellyesmore" at him.

Rimmer laughed at the tickle, which only served to remind him that the underpants was part of himself. He made them disappear, with a sigh. He looked at his erection. It had never stood up properly, the way he thought they were supposed to; it curved slightly on its way, like a mocking echo of his middle initial.

Lister stopped in mid-lick and whimpered "Hell, yes..." in an echo of the mantra in his mind. He licked slowly up the side of it, and Rimmer flopped back on the bunk with a groan. Lister gave the erection a few good, long licks, moaning. Rimmer shuddered, and Lister licked at the precome that began to leak out of the tip, circling the head with a groan. There was no taste there, either, but his brain seemed to fill in the blanks, as a faint sensation of salt and bitterness lingered in his mind.

Rimmer could not lie still; he rubbed his legs pointlessly against whatever bits of Lister they could reach. "Oh, Listy..." His voice cracked. Smeg, he sounded like a teenager. He stopped worrying about that, however, when Lister wrapped his lips around the head and sucked it in. It _was_ a lot like conventional sex - hot and wet - but that tongue added another layer to the sensation. Rimmer started to thrust into Lister's mouth, grabbing Lister's head with one hand.

Lister started a little, but recovered quickly, sucking it all in, trying to move as Rimmer seemed to want him to. The hologram could not be more obviously almost gone, thrusting and moaning. To Lister, there was nothing more intoxicating than a partner's pleasure, and he whined in harmony as soon as he was physically able to do so, thrusting against Rimmer's thigh, sucking harder and harder, wildly.

"Dave..." The word choked in Rimmer's throat as he came, his limbs turning to jelly.

Something warm, wet and tasteless filled Lister's mouth. He hardly had time to process what it must be before it disappeared, however, leaving him with a mixed sense of disappointment and satisfaction. He had hoped to show Rimmer how to last longer - he had more than a few tricks up his sleeve. Well, he scorned himself, then you shouldn't have been in such a bloody hurry, should you? All he could do now was try to make the best of what there was, and so he kept sucking out the aftershocks, moving his tongue as one or two old girlfriends had on him, pressing in just the right places. Rimmer thrust through them, gasping, twining his hands in Lister's hair. When it was all over, Lister licked the worn-out penis slowly again, panting, pressing his own groin against Rimmer's leg. He hadn't done much to deserve a return favor, but his penis was an egotistical little bastard.

Rimmer let his hands fall away from Lister's head as his penis grew flaccid. "Ohsmeg," he blew out in one breath. He could feel nervousness starting to creep over him. Talking after sex was something he was terribly bad at. He had very little experience with it, after all.

"Arn..." Lister mumbled, still against his groin. He'd been having fun down there; it seemed a shame to leave.

Well, that was simple enough conversation. "Yes," Rimmer agreed, panting, staring at the top of Lister's bunk.

Lister raised his head slightly and looked up, his mouth open, beaming. His hips thrust involuntarily, impatient. He tried to ignore them. Pulling his hands off of Rimmer's buttocks, he pulled himself upwards, grabbing whichever parts of Rimmer seeming fit for the purpose as he rose.

Something was happening, something that was taking that warm, wet breath away from his groin, where it had been feeling rather good. Rimmer made a mighty effort to raise his head and look at Lister. Oh. The other man hadn't come yet, and probably expected Rimmer to do something about that. Rimmer gamely wrapped his legs around Lister and rubbed him with them. Frottage had its appeal, he knew all too well.

Smeg, that was distractingly good. Lister shuddered, closing his eyes. He kissed Rimmer's chest on his way up, rubbing his cheek against the smooth, all-too-human-like skin. Rimmer petted Lister's head, sighing. "Sorry I couldn't..." talking was a great effort, "make ya last... longer..." He gritted his teeth.

"That wasn't... long?" Rimmer frowned. He thought he had lasted a fair time. What was long for Lister - a smegging fortnight? And how often did _he_ come? The would be there all week.

Smegging hell, what kind of sexual experiences had the poor man been subjected to? Lister laughed into Rimmer's chest, then kissed that same spot guiltily as Rimmer blushed. It was rude to laugh, but you had to, didn't you? You couldn't very well cry.

"Sorry," Rimmer muttered. Well, how the smeg was he to know sod-all about this?

"Nah... was me. Couldn't help rushing it... needed you." Lister's hips thrust again. "Heh. Still..." He was slightly embarrassed. All these years of bragging about his sexual prowess, and what did he do when an opportunity to show them off finally presented itself?

Rimmer bit his lip at Lister's thrusts, not sure _what_ he was going to have to do, if Lister regularly lasted a 'long time.' He nodded at nothing in particular, feeling his erection growing again as Lister ground against him.

He really was a far too lucky man, Lister decided, as he the unmistakable pressure of an erection made itself known against his thigh. Another chance, was it? Well, he was damn well going to make the best of it this time. Smiling happily, he aligned their erections, trying to work the rest of his clothes off impatiently, his hands shaking. "Oh..." Rimmer muttered, but seemed more concerned with grinding against Lister than helping him get his kit off. No matter; Lister had once undressed himself with one hand whilst keeping a girl _just_ on the edge of orgasm with the other. It was a small matter to get his jumpsuit down to knees, then starting to work at his longjohns.

Rimmer reconsidered. It might be a rather good idea, actually, to get those clothes off of Lister. Then he could throw the grotty things across the room. He started to push at them with his hands and legs, resembling an insect in its death throes, all limbs scrabbling.

Lister's fingers kept slipping. He kicked one boot off, thanking deities he does not believe in that he didn't lace it. He worked that leg free.

In the process of pushing the long johns off, Rimmer's hand pushed against Lister's bare erection. He shivered. It _was_ very sizeable, covered with slickly soft skin lying loose over the _very_ firm core.

"Yes..." Lister's voice rang out almost an octave higher than his speaking voice. For Earth's sake, at this rate _he_ wouldn't last much longer than Rimmer had!

Space, was he supposed to service that? "It'll never fit..." Rimmer muttered, then realized he had said it out loud. His face flamed with embarrassment. He licked Lister's chin, lifting himself to bury his face in Lister's neck.

The possibility had not even entered Lister's mind, but now that it presented itself, he found he couldn't let go of it. His mouth opened and his body started shaking more noticeably, as he tried to imagine... Oh god! "Don't... If you don't..." His face came alight with lust at the mere idea, making odd noises and bucking into Rimmer's grip as the hologram played with the head with one finger.

Rimmer's own erection was demanding attention, so he grabbed Lister's buttock and pulled him close to grind. This was making stroking more difficult, however. He continued to suck at Lister's neck.

That's going to leave a mark, Lister thought, moaning quite loudly, something playing at the back of his mind. Yes, there was something Rimmer liked, wasn't there? Something that might aid what has just been suggested? He took one hand, and with some effort, raised himself off Rimmer a little and started sucking his own fingers. He took his time.

Rimmer had been rather enjoying the sucking. He turned his head to start to nip and suck at the leather glove on the hand that was holding Dave up, instead. It tasted like leather and cigarettes, with a little stray curry on it somewhere. Lister bit the glove on hand he was licking, pulling it off with his teeth. Rimmer watched with interest, pulling the glove out of Lister's mouth with his own teeth and worrying at it as Lister licked his fingers some more. Watching this must have invoked some sort of reaction in Lister, because Rimmer felt him bucking a little harder into his grip after that. The glove felt good to chew on, satisfying the demands of both excitement and a fair bit of nervousness that still needed an outlet, but it was getting in the way of vocalization. Rimmer finally spat it out to moan a little more.

Tearing his glove off of the other hand with his teeth, more impatiently, Lister spat it out, and moved his hands down to Rimmer's groin. He put his non-licked hand on Rimmer's erection - there would be no coming to quickly this time, he admonished himself, hesitating as he put his other, wet hand by Rimmer's opening. He'd seen Rimmer do it to himself, after all, but even so... Having sex with a man had not intimidated Lister to any great extent. As he always said, bodies were bodies, and he tended to have knack for figuring them out. But this was _Rimmer_ , after all, full of hang-ups and smeg-ups and confused ideas. Was this something he would want a partner (was that what Lister was, now?) to do? He started stroking slowly, then carefully tried to insert a finger, very gently, watching Rimmer nervously.

It had always been a bit of an abrupt sensation, almost too intense to be, strictly speaking, pleasurable, but both of those were enhanced by _Lister_ performing the action. His fingers were broader, true, which might have something to do with it. Rimmer's rational mind pondered this while his irrational mind gasped and grasped Lister's erection more tightly.

"Stop me... If ya..." Lister shuddered, "If it hurts..."

Rimmer was in the middle of trying to decide just that. "OhIwill," he exhaled.

Lister thrust his finger in and out experimentally, trying to gauge Rimmer's reaction. He stroked Rimmer's erection very slowly with his other hand. He was pleased to see that the reactions were that Rimmer closed his eyes and put his head back, moaning every time the finger went in. Rimmer shifted in the slightly knotted position he had adopted to keep his hand on Lister's erection. Well, Lister was never good at reading the man, but this was printed in six-foot high fluorescent letters. Thus encouraged, Lister increased the pace of his thrusting somewhat, his middle finger playing at the opening, hesitantly.

After the initial shock had passed, Rimmer decided that it did, on balance, feel quite incredible. He grasped Lister's erection more firmly and started to stroke it hard.

Two fingers. That's what Rimmer had used, wasn't it? Two? Or was it just the one? Maybe this body was different from the soft-light one; Rimmer had certainly hinted at it from time to time, and if so, should he - but Lister's internal debate was interrupted by Rimmer's increased pace, which apparently had the effect of turning his mind to mush. He whimpered, and his middle finger slid in without him really meaning for it to.

Incredible gave way to magnificent. Whatever the difference was in Lister's fingers, Rimmer was all for it. He jerked downwards to get both fingers in deeply with a gasp of "Ah!" He started to pump Lister's erection hard as he wiggled on Lister's fingers.

Lister tried to follow through, and managed quite well quite quickly. But if he was to keep this up, something had to be done. Panting hard, he looked down for a moment, wincing. Every fibre in his body screamed at him to just let go and let the frantic stroking take him where he _needed_ to go, but that was not the Lister way. He very reluctantly removed Rimmer's hand from himself. "Don... wanna come too soon..."

Well, if the man didn't want to come until next month, that wasn't Rimmer's problem. He shivered, lying back with his eyes closed, as he felt those fingers move in and out, bumping some very good parts of himself along the way.

Rationality by now long gone, Lister's mind was a never-ending echo of 'havetomakeupforit, havetomakeupforit'. He kissed Rimmer's chest, stroking slowly, still fingering. "Tell me... Tell me what you want..."

Rimmer continued to pant quick breaths - that reaction to excitement proving that old habits _do_ die hard - and moved slightly on Lister's fingers. The smegger could go a bit faster, really. "I think... I have it already."

That face, so goited _open_ for once; that body glistening with simulated sweat; eyes actually _seeing_ him... Lister laughed hoarsely. "Hell. You are gorgeous..."

That was not a phrase that Rimmer was accustomed to hearing, and if it was a joke - well, Lister usually brought them to completion more quickly than this was going on. Rimmer felt shivers of orgasm take him again; he grabbed the back of Lister's neck tightly with both hands as he came, riding it out. Lister stroked out his orgasm, ramming his fingers in, bucking against the mattress in a way Rimmer might have found odd had his brain been capable of processing such trivialities at this point. The ramming kept the orgasm going for longer, and Rimmer yelped at the sensation. After Lister collapsed on Rimmer's chest, almost spasming, Rimmer wiggled gamely just a little more on Lister's fingers, trying to ride the high. All too quickly, it passed, leaving him weak and shivering.

Lister responded to the movement almost instinctively, slowly withdrawing. Rimmer twinged as Lister's fingers pulled out, and Lister grabbed his thigh hard, needing some anchor, some support in all this. He felt... he felt _spent_ , even though he was still rock hard. The object of this game - and it was a game, to Lister - was to not come first, and give the other person a hell of a ride before they got there. He'd been with women who came all the time, and that was bloody exhausting. This was a happy medium. Very happy indeed.

Maybe Lister _had_ wanted to try some of that... more sex-like sex, after all. Rimmer mumbled at the ceiling, "Sorry I didn't..." He shrugged. Well, the idea had its appeal.

"Hmm?" Lister asked, delirious.

"You know." Rimmer coughed uncomfortably. "Next time." He added, quickly. "I mean, if you want..." You know what they say about assumptions, Rimsy, he chided himself. "A next time." Not to everyone's taste, this.

More of this? His cock ached in protest, demanding attention, but Lister gave a deep, shuddering sigh. "Hell yes..."

"Oh. All right." Rimmer stared at the ceiling and tried to figure out how he felt about that. Part of himself was absolutely aghast that there had been a first time to start with. Another part of him, one that was surveying his exhausted limbs and sore cock, was weighing in on the affirmative side of 'more of this.' Whatever 'this' was. He'd have to think of a name. Some kind of decent label.

Clambering up Rimmer's body, Lister felt like an explorer, reaching the summit of some as-yet unconquered mountain. A limp holographic hand was put on his back as he inched his way upwards, seeming unsure of what to do. Lister kept one hand on own erection, almost peacefully stroking it, leaning against Rimmer. He felt no measurable difference; already stimulated way past the point of 'over', but the act was somehow soothing. "Din't want to say," he mumbled. "said before... was wrong. Turned out wrong."

Rimmer frowned. Did sex with men result in aphasia? "What?" he asked, slightly worried.

"I..." Lister looked up, something akin to fear in his eyes. Yes, he could choose not to say this. What good had such revelations ever done either of them in the past? But no. Running away was never the answer. Not from danger, not from fear, not from memories you didn't think you needed. "I do love you, you know."

Maybe it did. Otherwise, where would _that_ come from? Well, it was the common thing to say during or after sex, wasn't it? Sex. That must be the label for the 'this.' It was rather a lot to assimilate. Rimmer looked down at Lister, eyes slightly wide. "Oh. Well, that's... good."

Relief flooded Lister's features. "Yes. I think so." He dropped his hand from his erection; it was no use. No matter; he was satisfied. In every meaning of the word.

As Rimmer was looking down, he was in a position to see the abandoned member. "Oh!" How long _did_ the man tend to last? Was this an anomaly? He reached over to touch it, tentatively. It was just as before, soft skin over firm erection. Lister mumbled incoherently into Rimmer's side, yelping at the touch. The man must give up what little eloquence he possessed during sex, Rimmer decided. He pulled his hand away and licked it, depositing much saliva, and rubbed the now-slick hand over Lister's erection.

All right, the remnants of Lister's conscious mind admitted, perhaps he _did_ need this after all. He huffed, arched his back, and thrust hard into Rimmer's hand, riding the culmination of a desire so long (minutes? Hours? Years? Centuries?) in building. There were no more considerations to make, and so Lister leaned into the quick, practiced strokes, needing only a few of them to come rather spectacularly. He laughed as he did so, eyes watering, as Rimmer stroked him out, twiddling the base of his head. Laughter segued into crying at the relief of finally having _release_ , his body almost convulsing.

Crying, now? What on Io was with the man? Had Rimmer done something wrong? He doubted it; it was a fairly straightforward thing to do, after all! He patted Lister nervously on the back with his non-come-covered hand. "Er... it's all right..."

Lister collapsed again into Rimmer's chest, or rather the side of his chest, which is where he had rather inelegantly landed. "Know."

"Oh, good." Rimmer had been exhausted when he came the second time; he was now rapidly progressing to the point of exhaustion where he would be too tired to sleep. To forestall that, he closed his eyes, lay flat, and tried to surreptitiously rub the sticky come off of his hand and onto the blanket. Amid all of those foodstains, it would never be noticed. Lister kept laughing and crying for a little while, holding on to Rimmer tightly. Rimmer patted him like he was a pet dog, trying to fall asleep "It's all right..." He tried for comforting, but he had a feeling he sounded as exasperated as he felt.

"Know... Cn't be bttr," Lister mumbled, enjoying the awkward gestures of comfort for the thought he knew was behind them. With a slight sniffle, he added, "Happy."

"Good." Rimmer held his breath, stroking Lister's back gently, waiting to see what the Lister Wheel Of Emotions would spin up next. When Lister did nothing more unusual than breathing a long, deep sigh and snuggling closer, Rimmer's head fell to the side, and he started to doze.

Drifting into a much needed state of sleep, Lister mumbled, "Happy..." once again. It was the sort of statement it felt worth repeating.

Rimmer woke with a start as that word went into his ear. "Yes." He looked over at Lister, determined to get a heavy object to hit him over the head with if he did not fall asleep promptly. Fortunately for the harmony of the lander, Lister was deep asleep, and Rimmer drifted off to the lullaby of his snores.

 

And so, time passed. Planets were visited, suits repaired, linen ironed, presidents saved and killed, and curry recovered. Holograms hovered uncertainly outside doors, biting nails that would re-grow even before the bitten-off fragments hit the floor in a shower of tiny blue sparks. Lister finally gave in, and allowed Kryten to start bleaching his longjohns, lying awake at night hoping to see any possible side-effects of this, but his door remained unopened.

From time to time, when the two of them were on cockpit duty together, Lister would feel the lightest touch on his arm, only to turn around and see a rapidly retreating, almost shaking back. And some times, sitting down to dinner, eyes would meet in silent understanding across the table, and Lister would run back to his bunk to shake the sheets clean, drown himself in aftershave and throw the stinkiest of his socks into the shower with the water on, and lie down to wait... but in vain.

Conversation was sparse, and so it took Lister nearly two weeks to get as far as "Would you like to maybe play an AR game some time?" without interruption by some crisis or another, or his conversation partner slinking away to hide somewhere. However, two or three days later, when he'd almost forgotten he'd asked, a somewhat crimson-shaded Rimmer gave him a curt, but meaningful nod as he went to join the Cat for cockpit duty. Lister only just had time for a short little victory-dance, before rushing off to the AR-machines. He had just a few hours, and a _whole_ lot of re-programming to do...

Several hours, and an awkward, near-silent walk to the AR-suite later, Lister walked up to Rimmer, holding a basin of oil nonchalantly in one hand, and started pouring it over Rimmer.

Rimmer looked down at Lister. This setup - him chained to a stone pillar, nearly naked, in a dirt-floored cave eerily lit with flickering torches, looked very familiar - and not from history books. "What are you doing?" he asked, nervously.

Tossing away the cigarette he had been smoking, Lister gave a wink. "Best not keep smoking with this around."

Rimmer shook his hands to make the chains jingle. Irateness battled nervousness. "Lister, you told me that we were going to visit a simulation of the French Revolution!" he barked.

Lister shrugged, unable to resist. "Dunno much about history."

"And you don't know much biology, either?" Rimmer asked, snarkily.

The oil was nicely slippery, aiding the movement of Lister's hands as he rubbed them over Rimmer's body. "Should I tell ya what I do know?" he asked with an evil grin.

"I'm glad you know not to oil someone with a cigarette in your mouth..." Rimmer muttered, faintly. Smeg it all, he liked being in control of situations - AJ Rimmer, intrepid commander! Not Smeghead, chained to a post and having his libido tweaked by Lister! Especially when he had been looking forward to seeing a real guillotine. The space-bum poured another handful of very slippery oil over Rimmer's chest. Rimmer shivered. "That oil is _cold_ , miladdio!" he yelped. As if his nipples were not announcing that fact sufficiently loudly.

"That so?" Lister asked. He started rubbing where he poured, over Rimmer's shoulders and down his arms, much like he'd wanted to do the first time he'd seen this gorgeous sight.

Rimmer sighed. "Yes, that's better." He was still smegging chained to a post and not meeting Napoleon, but at least he wasn't freezing. He sighed and closed his eyes, the very familiar feeling of resignation trickling over him. "Yes, that's _very_ nice," he had to admit. If he hadn't been in a loincloth, he would have had to admit a little more. Then Lister licked the underside of Rimmer's arms as he rubbed the overside, and Rimmer completely lost track of his admissions. "What was this program called again?" Rimmer asked, trying to swivel his head around to keep his eye on Lister as the little man walked to stand behind him.

"I might tell ya later... if yer good."

"Good?" Rimmer asked, practically dislocating his neck to watch as Lister removed his fingerless leather gloves. His neck eased as Lister leaned over his shoulder, but jerked straight as something prodded his back.

Lister poured a measure of oil into his hands, warming it, watching Rimmer watch him out of the corner of his eye. Yeah, the too-sexed-up for his own good git was paying attention all right. Lister reached around him, rubbing oil over his chest. It slid down just slowly enough that you could enjoy the sight of it quite leisurely, which Lister did.

Lister had shifted so whatever had been prodding Rimmer was prodding him no longer; Rimmer leaned back. The warm oil felt pretty smegging good. "Not.... not a bad program, this."

"I rather like it," Lister mumbled, rubbing another handful of oil down Rimmer's stomach, over his abdomen, and onto his sides.

It was definitely past the point of 'educational' and into the point of 'erotic' - perhaps even 'sexual.' He moaned nasally. "What..." he started to ask. It emerged as a squeak, so he cleared his throat and tried again. "What is the oil for, anyway? Conducting electricity?"

As he pressed more firmly against Rimmer, Lister's erection prodded the hologram's buttocks. "No..." he said, huskily, taking a double handful of oil, and before it could dribble out of his hands, rubbed down Rimmer's legs, then up again.

"So... what?" Rimmer asked, faintly.

There was just something about this position that made Lister not want to leave it, and so he pressed even closer instead, murmuring into Rimmer's ear. "Patience."

"I knew Patience," Rimmer mumbled. "She slept with all of the boys in my year. Except me."

Lister withdrew with a chuckle and reluctantly moved around to Rimmer's front. The loincloth drew his eyes, just barely covering what in Lister's opinion didn't even really need to be covered. He lifted another double-handful of oil and started to rub the front of Rimmer's legs, keeping his eyes at groin-level. The cloth was bulging a little in the middle, and Lister hid a smile.

Rimmer watched Lister with interest. He couldn’t help noticing the one difference from his psi-moon - well, aside from the lack of red-eyed demons or slobbering monsters. He was barefoot. "Do women really like sock suspenders, or was it just the other-me?"

Now that was a decidedly unsexy image. Not that much could detract from a naked, chained up Rimmer, but Lister still wished the subject had not come up. "I'm pretty sure it was just you... er... her."

Rimmer sighed. "Smeg! All these years..."

The oil invited sliding, and so Lister did, slowly moving behind Rimmer, trailing his hands on the hologram's oiled legs, ending up at a pair of very firm buttocks underneath the loincloth. Exhaling loudly, he began to rub them very firmly, breathing into Rimmer's neck and closing his eyes.

Rimmer closed his own eyes and moaned. "Is this... is this one of those naughty AR programs?" Lister certainly seemed to know his way around. Rimmer wondered how many times he had been there, and who else had been chained where he was.

"What do _you_ think?" Lister murmured, kneading further.

"Well, if it isn't, you're violating a usage agreement somewhere," Rimmer sighed. Well, what the smeg. _He_ was there - for a time, at least.

Always the smart-arse, wasn't he? Lister stepped away for a moment, looking teasingly at Rimmer. "I could always stop..."

"Hey!" Rimmer's eyes widened. Smeg, was Lister really going to leave, leaving him hanging there? For how long? Cat or Kryten wouldn't come looking for him, for sure, and wouldn't let him down if they found him.

Yeah, not so tough now, are you, Lister thought, grinning slyly at Rimmer's hangdog expression and reaching for more oil. He poured a generous measure into his hand and moved close again, sliding his hand under the front of the loincloth.

Rimmer stood very straight at the feeling of Lister's slick, warm hand on the erection that should have been nicely concealed under that loincloth. "Oh!" he said, startled, worrying at his lip, bucking into the light touch. Lister grasped it fully at that and stared sliding up and down. Rimmer tried to say something snarky, but only incoherent gasps came out. Lister slid his other hand around to grasp Rimmer's buttocks, sliding his hand up and down their slippery surface as Rimmer gasped, "Li... Meep!" and bucked into the hand Lister was holding around his penis.

This was a one hell of a program, Lister congratulated himself. Moving away from that hot, toned, oiled-down body was next to impossible, but Lister managed, keeping eye-contact.

Now _this_ was absolutely not fair. Rimmer whined plaintively as he watched Lister step away, out of reach of what little Rimmer had free to reach with, and started to slip out of his jumpsuit. Rimmer wondered if he could relieve himself by jittering against the loincloth, but it just was nowhere near as satisfying as Lister's hand.

Rimmer was watching him, Lister noted. Good. Out of his jumpsuit now, Lister, pulled off the top of his sparkling while longjohns - surely the twonk would actually notice it _now_ \- and tied the arms around his waist.

It was a relief to Rimmer to see that he was not the only one being affected by this scene. Lister's erection bulged against his long johns in a way that left very little to Rimmer's imagination - which was a good thing, as Rimmer's imagination was not one of his best-developed qualities. Rimmer stared at that feature of Lister's, mesmerized, jittering unsatisfyingly against the loincloth. The chains jingled in harmony.

More oil ran into Lister's hands as he poured it, reaching out quickly for Rimmer's erection. Did the man have any idea how inviting he looked? Probably not, Lister guessed, staring intently at the flushed face.

Why the smeg was the man staring like that? Rimmer felt self-conscious in the extreme, and only the high degree of sexiness of the rest of the situation was keeping him hard as he bucked into Lister's hand.

"What would you like me to do to you?" Lister purred.

What kind of a question was that? Did Lister think Rimmer wanted him to part his hair? Make him brekkie? Help him organize his revision notes? No, he smegging well wanted Lister to get him off! "I rather think that the point of this game," Rimmer gasped, dismayed that he sounded so breathless and could not keep himself from trying to buck into Lister's hand, "is for you to do all of it to me."

Well yes, there was that. Lister had chosen this scenario for the program because it seemed like a good way to teach the man to smegging trust him. There was, of course, also the small matter that the image now presented before him turned Lister on almost beyond the limits of sanity. But domination has never appealed to Lister, reminding him, as it did, too much of slavery, oppression and inequality - all things which he loathed. "Oh, eh? That's what you reckon?"

"My best guess, Listy," Rimmer moaned. He gave up on the bucking, as his legs were cramping; he did not need any additional parts of his body to be stiff, thank you _very_ much.

The hologram sighed whinily, as Lister stroked him. He certainly didn't seem opposed to the idea, and Lister was too turned on to put up much of a fight. "Well, then..." He leaned in, pressing against Rimmer as he poured oil between them. Still pumping the hologram's erection, Lister slid his tongue into Rimmer's mouth, feeling himself starting to shake at the prospect of what was to come.

Rimmer opened his mouth and stuck his tongue out, bracing himself for the bitter taste of cigarettes and beer that always clung to Lister's mouth. He was not disappointed in that, as Lister's long, prehensile tongue played with his own. It had been quite long enough; with a moan, Rimmer came in Lister's hand.

Pulling away from the kiss a little, Lister raised an eyebrow. "Now, didn't I tell you to behave?

Rimmer tried to capture that tongue, feeling irritation as it pulled away. Couldn't he just enjoy his orgasm? "You know how I am," he said quietly, still spasming.

Lister pretended to consider this. "No, I don't think that's any excuse. I think..." he stepped away and opened his longjohns, letting his erection spring out, "you will need to be punished fer that."

"Hey!" Rimmer said, sounding almost as pitiful as he felt.

The oil was a little cold, Lister noted, as he poured it over his own erection almost contemplatively. It hardly mattered now though; as hard and ready as he was, he could have stuck the goited thing into a bucket of ice-water, and it would hardly have shrunk at all. He stroked it a few times, letting himself enjoy it, making sure Rimmer saw. Yes, the hologram did; he was licking his lips as he stared at it, and oh, how that intensified the whole experience. Lister poured on more oil, until the slippery stuff dripped off of it, falling to the ground almost lazily.

Rimmer watched the drops fall. They were hypnotic. Oh, hell, forget it; there was nothing hypnotic about the oil other than the fact that it was dripping off of Lister's erection, that it was squeezing out between his fingers as he stroked himself. Rimmer realized that his tongue had fallen out of his mouth, and he tried to reel it back in. It wanted to stay out.

Lister walked around behind Rimmer and pressed hard against him, once again, letting his slick erection slide between Rimmer's oiled legs. Smeg, that felt good; he could get off on that if he had to - had to? He'd beg to be allowed to do so, but there were other options yet to explore. He pulled off the loincloth, which unraveled as he tugged at one end, and tossed it aside, then started rubbing Rimmer's buttocks with his oily hands. As Rimmer moaned, throwing his head back, Lister slid one hand around to Rimmer's front and started stroking him again, slipping the index finger from his other hand inside.

Rimmer had already started to firm when Lister had taken him in hand, as it were, and sprang to complete attention when Lister's broad finger slipped inside of him. He sighed and pushed back that on finger, then forwards into Lister's hand, enjoying the alternating sensation of having his erection and his prostate stroked. Lister rammed in another finger, and Rimmer gasped, "Smegyes," his mouth falling open somewhat stupidly.

The entire world around him seemed intent on turning him on beyond the point where he could do this with any sort of consideration for anything but his own need. By sheer force of will, Lister willed himself to relax as he slid his fingers in and out, then tried carefully to see if another finger would fit. It had to be careful, had to be gentle, or this just would not work!

Rimmer choked in discomfort as the third finger slid in, but relaxed into it after a few pumps. He noted that the more he relaxed, the more Lister seemed able to spread him, and he chewed on that fact with some nervousness. "Dave..." he whined, as Lister spread him farther.

More oil. More oil, pouring over Lister's own erection, and where his hand was sliding in and out. Had to be more oil. Had to keep sane, keep from... oh smeg. More oil. He ever-so-gently slipped his fingers out gradually, trembling as he tried to ease the head of his erection in.

Rimmer felt Lister's erection prodding at him. Well, this was it - did he expect Lister to be satisfied with hand jobs forever? He made his legs relax, leaving him dangling from his arms rather than resting his weight on his toes. This put more force into Lister's entry, and very abruptly, the head slid in. It hurt abominably, and he yelped, but the shock of the sensation left him almost paralyzed.

"Smeg..." Lister groaned, harshly. There were no other words.

"Wait... will be... just one..." Rimmer did not know if he was trying to reassure Lister at all, or just himself. He was panting like a dog on an August day. He tried to make himself relax, but it was not a talent of his.

Pain. That was pain; Lister was sure of it. Pain meant stopping. If they were stopping it had to be now. He had to know. "You OK?" God, it felt so _good!_ There was no justice in the universe if Rimmer was in pain while he was feeling like this.

"Yes.. just..." Rimmer felt himself relaxing, finally, as he forced himself to breathe more slowly. His arms relaxed along with the rest of him, and he slid a little farther onto Lister. The pain was less than it had been initially, but as it subsided, it was replaced by a growing sense of fullness, one that was incredibly disconcerting. He gave a yelping moan, his body shuddering, but as Lister's erection slid most of the way in, it pushed against his prostate firmly, and the resulting flood of pleasure was not something he had expected, at all. He used his arms to slide up and down the teeniest bit, experimenting with the feeling.

Pain, still, but also pleasure. _Yes_ , pleasure. Lister could work with that. He reached one hand unsteadily around to Rimmer's erection again, as he tried to follow the movements suggested by Rimmer. What he wanted to do was thrust wildly, riding this feeling that was like none other he had ever experienced. Well, he'd never had anal sex with hologram in an AR-suite, had he? Stood to reason, really, he thought, somewhat incoherently, as his other hand grabbed Rimmer's hip firmly.

The touch on his erection relaxed Rimmer enough for his arms to go loose; he bottomed out with a moan. That felt far too good.

Lister laughed in pure joy and sighed into Rimmer's ear. "Arn..." His Arn. If he was lucky, if he could make this work. Nothing came from nothing. But yes, he needed him. Needed his Arn.

Every breath of Rimmer's was a whine or a moan. It didn't even feel like him; he was watching some chained-up git with his mouth half-open moan nasally as he bounced up and down on Lister's erection. All he knew was that it felt smegging brilliant.

Wanting, needing to move, Lister tried to do so very gently, stroking the erection in his hand with as light a touch as he could manage. This was going to last. He would _make_ it last, dammit!

Rimmer shivered at every touch, whining "Yes, Dave," as he tried to pull himself higher to slide down harder onto Lister.

Lister sucked at the join of Rimmer's neck and shoulder, playing with Rimmer's erection a little as he started thrusting, ever so slowly, because there were limits to self-control, even for him. He sucked harder at Rimmer's neck, the hand on the hologram's hip digging into it; starting to pump Rimmer's erection hard.

The combination of all of that stimulation was quite enough for Rimmer, and he moaned and came again, spasming around Lister's cock.

Lister let go of Rimmer's neck with his mouth to cry out; he kept thrusting, pulling out every last bit of orgasm with his hand. And finally, with a long, almost plaintive, "Arn," he came, clutching Rimmer's hip and erection; forgetting everything outside that tiny world of sensation and hot, slick, pulsating bodies.

Rimmer bit his lip as he felt Lister grasp his erection more firmly and pummel him harder, hearing him pant wildly. But then the grip loosened, his erection dropping out of it, as Lister came. His cock slapped wetly, spent, against his legs as Lister grasped him by both hips and began to slide out, carefully. Rimmer shivered at the sensation, feeling spent, weak, and shaky; his rear was as dilated as he thought it could be. The cock did not hurt, but it felt distinctly odd as it slid out. And it took so smegging long... Rimmer felt like ten feet of erection was sliding out of him.

This was more, so much more than he'd ever whished for or dreamed of. To be given it so easily, so readily... Lister whispered a quiet "Thank you..." He was an enigmatic man, was Arnold Judas Rimmer.

Rimmer twitched as the last of it slid out. His cock was aching about as happily as it ever had. He cleared his throat. "Was that my punishment?" he asked, officiously.

Lister grinned a little, collapsing onto Rimmer's shoulder. "Yeah."

"I'm going to go rob a bank," Rimmer replied, with certainty.

"Good," Lister replied. He fiddled with something Rimmer could not see; the chains on Rimmer's arms slowly relaxed and opened, setting him free. A pang of guilt hit Lister in the gut once again at the instinctive _wrongness_ the chaining up signified to him, but all in all, he was far to happy to be upset at anything.

Rimmer's arms and legs were stiff from the odd position he had been in, and cramped with the after-effects of sex. He staggered a little, falling to a sitting position. When Lister sat down next to him, moving in for a kiss, he merely opened his mouth limply, and let Lister kiss him softly, tiredly, tenderly. He moved his lips against Lister's; the taste and smell of sex was so pervasive that he could barely even taste the smoke. He pulled back. "How long do we have before Kryten drags us out?"

"Dunno..." Given the choice, Lister would gladly have stayed in this warm, happy, slippery, glowing, tongue-exchanging place forever. "Why?"

Rimmer lay down, sighing. "Tired."

Lister smiled happily. Well, who could blame him? "We could go sleep in my bunk if ye like." An easy invitation, wasn't it? A wonder, even after all of this, that the possible answer should worry him as much as it did.

Rimmer nodded. Dirt from the ground was sticking to the oil that covered him, and the ground was none too warm. "It's cold here," he said, petulant.

Oily, dirty, beautiful. Lister rubbed his hand in the oil on Rimmer's chest, and sighed. "You have the most amazin' body..."

'Amazing' was a rather ambiguous term. "In a good way or a bad way?"

Lister laughed. "Hell yes, in a good way! I can't look at ya without wanting to... " he shrugged apologetically, "do what we just done."

Rimmer nodded with a smug grin. Well, he could give a compliment back, now that he had received one. But only a completely accurate one. "You, in turn, have a penis that should be banned by the Erotic Persuasion subsection of the Geneva Conventions."

"Wha, the EPGC? They sent me a letter. I tore it up."

Rimmer snorted. "They'll be wanting to put that under observation."

Lister giggled. "Maybe you could help 'em with that."

Rimmer looked over at the member in question, which had not yet subsided completely to its resting state. "I have a safe hideout, if things get too hot for you in the normal course of life."

Lister nodded, then broke into laughter, burying his head in the join of his neck and shoulder. It felt good, this; the two of them, sitting here, laughing. Better, in some ways, than the sex. He paused for a moment, shaking his head. Nah, what was he saying; the sex was smegging _amazing!_ This, though; this came a good, close second.

Rimmer awkwardly patted Lister's head. "Back to your bunk. I'm cold." _His_ member was going beyond its resting state from the chilliness.

A good suggestion if ever there was one. Lister snuggled a little closer and nodded. He always felt a little like some arcane master of space and time when he uttered AR commands. Tonight, perhaps, a little more even than usual. "Off!"

Just before the scene changed from a torchlit cave to the AR room on Starbug, Lister heard a nasal voice complain, "I already did!"

 

Rimmer awoke gradually, and did not open his eyes; he felt very relaxed, and still slightly tired despite the nap he had just had. He had slept - smeg, how long had he slept? He hadn't checked the clock when he fell asleep. He opened his eyes to check it nonetheless, and wondered what was wrong with his eyes; everything was still pitch-black. And very warm. And smelled like crotch.

Rimmer slowly realized that he was lying upside-down in a bunk, his feet ice-cold and his face squished into someone's crotch. He had never thought he would ever wake up with his head in someone's crotch and desperately hope that it was Lister, but given the other options on the lander - he desperately hoped it was Lister. He jerked upright, pulling the scratchy blanket off of his head. Those sturdy beige legs _must_ be Lister's, he decided with a sigh of relief. But there was something bright red on the man's inner thigh. Blood? Rimmer started to feel faint. But no, it was not running... it looked almost like... ink? Rimmer prodded on the thigh with his finger, and something near Rimmer's feet grumbled. The legs moved, falling open slightly, allowing Rimmer to see that the red was not, in fact, blood. It was a tattoo, in flamingly bright red ink. Rimmer looked more closely, squinting, and saw that the letters read "I  <3 Petersen."

Rimmer quietly and carefully slid out of the bunk, and started to shuffle through the abysmal mess on Lister's dresser, looking for his camera. Blackmail opportunities of this magnitude _never_ came twice.

 

Three million and some years earlier, Olaf Petersen approached the rickety table in his quarters with some hesitation. He was sober, again, but this time he wasn't enjoying it as much as he had last time. He would do this, then go out drinking. And because he had done this, he'd enjoy the drinking all the more. Hell, he might even enjoy being sober. Still...

They'd said it was safe. Insisted, even. But Petersen had bought dodgy merchandise off street-merchants before, and knew that usually, the more they insisted something was 'perfectly safe', the more likely it was to burn you to cinders with radiation and turn your face inside out. He sighed once again, and scratched at his thigh. He'd never shown Dave _his_ tattoo. Perhaps that was for the best. Yes. He would do this; forget about it all, as Dave had clearly forgotten, and time would pass.

Yes, time would pass, and heal all wounds, with a little help from technology. He pushed the device down on top of his head (it made a rather bad fit), and flipped the toggles on either side. A quiet hum enveloped him, accompanied by a soft flash, and that was that. He'd go to bed, wake up, and remember nothing.

Ah well, too late for regrets now, anyway.


End file.
